


Until All Are One

by LediShae



Series: Primus' Blessing [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 95,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LediShae/pseuds/LediShae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Optimus was Prime, before Ironhide was his bodyguard, Cybertron was peaceful. This is the tale of one life that has changed with the tides of war. <br/>Fusion of G1 and Bayverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

"Hope, report!" The command was barked out over the bustling surgical ward, startling the small grey and white Junior Surgeon working on the still form of Senior Surgeon Slipback. The younger, one of the most promising barely glanced up, faceplates calm despite the severity of the internal damages he faced.

"Stabilized, introducing energon feeds. Neural net repairs commencing." The youngling kept his voice level, impressing his superiors, and advancing his standings in the graduating class from the medical academy. Several other Junior surgeons glanced from their work, scowling at the prized pupil. Hope had been brought here unconscious, unable to remember where he had come from, or who his creators had been. Then he had awoken, and had shown an immediate aptitude for medicine that led most to believe he had been the private student of one of the elite medics. No one could tell for sure.

Recent attacks from growing gangs had shaken Crystal Island, the lofty, floating island home of Cybertron's most elite upper class citizens. The shimmering silver hued crystals contained pockets of lighter than atmosphere Infinima gas that kept it buoyant in the heavy methane rich atmosphere. Several lineages had been decimated, the attacks seemingly random in nature only served to stir unrest in the lesser classes and fear in everyone as chunks of the heavy ruined crystals rained down deactivation on the lower masses.

Hope returned his attention to the torn neural network connecting relays from his patient's logic core to his extremities. The fine filaments had to be handled gently, chrio-cooled to extremely low temperatures to allow their structures to become malleable. Otherwise, mending the torn sections with fresh filaments would result in fraying and loss of neural sensitivity.

Few knew how he had become so advanced in his studies – fewer had ever asked. The young mech forced his attention once more on his patient, slightly smug to see that his lapse in focus had not caused any faults within the filaments. His work continued fluidly, making his station the one silent point in a busy bay.

Seeming orns later Hope finally left Slipback to the nurse attendants and moved to another berth. There were many wounded, and this shift was part of his full orn rotation mending the worst of injuries. He felt pride in his circuits as he worked. He had strove hard to reach this point in his studies, and he had proved himself to be one of, if not the best in his class. He knew he was the best, but he would never flaunt it. He hated the prancing idiots who flaunted their skills. Those idiots normally hesitated when they faced life threatening injuries.

'Yes, if I ever have my own clinic my first rule will be to never hesitate.' Hope nodded to himself, placing that thought in his memory files for later retrieval. One orn, when exactly he didn't know, but eventually, he would have his own clinic. One with a resident engineer and circuit specialist to work for him making replacement components as needed to reduce the storage requirements of standard parts and be better able to keep the specialized mechs fully functional.

As his shift continued he allowed his subroutines to focus on the patients while he focused on his dream. Eventually he would have the best clinic in all of Cybertron. When that day came all would know Hope, and all would respect the best.

* * *

" _Designation: Hope. Operation: Infiltrate Iacon Academy. Goal: Attain a highest position possible. All others expendable, set redundant memory suppression on my mark – mark! Designation: Hope –"_

Hope forced himself from his recharge cycle, vents cycling too fast as his logic circuits rebooted to remind him where he was. Unusual cobalt optics looked over the small shelf he lay upon, one of many in the dorm, he alone was out of recharge. With a sigh he once more lay back.

He had been here nine vorns, his masters demanding he put in the standard time at the Academy despite having completed all his courses and passed every exam. He was, by virtue of the exams, a senior medic but he was still designated a junior. His glyphs had been withheld, and would continue to be thus for another fifteen vorns. The unfairness and cruelty to keep his skills from aiding others galled him.

Hope twitched uncomfortably, memory file replaying itself of his recharge flux. Because of his enforced residency here at the Academy he had access to every senior medic within the Northern Quadrant and their CMOs, his test placement privileges allowed him full use of all medical databanks and the Cybertron library, and granted him the freedom to access any other database on Cybertron, even Decepticon Military Medical databases. And the insidious voice deep within his core processes that erased itself with every on-cycle instigated his curiosity into outside research.

He knew he knew too much, that if ever someone wanted to hurt another all they needed to do was tap into his memory cortex. The thoughts were terrifying. As he lie there his thoughts spun, whirled with his vain pride at his accomplishments and humble fear of hurting another. Yet as he chased his thoughts his recharge cycle reengaged and once more he fell off-line.

"… _Infiltrate the Iacon Academy …"_

Hope surged from recharge once more, finally goading himself from the dorm and out into the silent halls. He shuddered from the memory fragment of his creator's voice, that horrid voice! When a youngling is created, Hope knew from experience, they were to remain inactive during their core processes implant. Hope was not given that privilege. He had been aware as a small speck of consciousness as his creator had  _dumped_  entire memory core transfers into his still developing memory cortex. Entire caches of past medics filled his storage space, forcing him to resort to self upgrades by implanting additional memory chips into his own cranial unit just to keep up with the horrific process his creator had started.

He did not understand the reason for his thievery. Why did he need the memories from so many medics? More importantly, why had it taken him nine vorns to realize it? He had begun to get suspicious when his focus would wander while working on a senior medic. Whenever he refocused he found a data line hard linked into his patient's transfer port – and a high frequency data stream transferring unidirectionally,  _to_ him. Then the memory fragment resurfaced. The time stamp was from two hundred thousand astroseconds before he awoke in the Academy nine vorns ago.

He had yet to remember his creator's name. He knew it was in his databanks, under the restrictions from the redundant memory suppression forced on him. 'Wave, his creator's name was so close,  _something_ -wave. His pedes echoed hollowly in the empty corridors, during off cycle all on-cycle mechs rested while off-cycle mechs were busy at work. The two cycle shifts shared berth space, none of the medical students having possessions of their own. Finally, he resurfaced from his thoughts finding himself in the bowls of Cybertron far below the Academy.

"Welcome, youngling" A voice spoke from the glittering expanse.

"Greetings, elder" Hope replied with a respectful bow, "Where am I?"

"You stand in the Hall of Light, here we Disciples of Primus pray for the longevity and eternal survival of Cybertron, the Frame of Primus." The old orange and green mech smiled kindly down at Hope.

"Why is it here under the Academy?" Hope moved through the hall, pacing beside the disciple as he took in the vast, echoing space filled with a radiance emanating from the wall plating itself allowing no shadows to exist within the sanctuary.

"Once, long ago this was the highest point on Cybertron. Our roof held a beacon that heralded the return of long distance Decepticon troops letting them know that they were home. Yet time, and a forgotten era of chaos destroyed our beacon, and new cities have been built over the old."

"You mean, the construction division enlarges Cybertron with every construction project?" Hope asked amazed, looking at the archaic design of the hall in renewed amazement.

"Correct, youngling. Now, what has brought you to our humble temple?"

"I could not recharge. I am in training to be a medic." Hope swallowed tightly, his fuel intakes puling in discomfort with the bitter reality of his position as trainee. "I am not boasting, I know more than any of the medic professors. I have led several classes, been brought into the hospitals of six quadrants for assistance and have been allowed to volunteer as Senior Assistant Medic in sixteen Decepticon peace missions. I've had to take over for junior surgeons, senior surgeons, field medics, triage ward managers and Senior medics. But, they keep me in the Academy as a student, they will not grant me my crosses and there are entire districts out there thronging with the impoverished masses relying on only one or two volunteer medics.

"The over taxed medics and ignored patients need me to graduate and help with the workload, but my professors keep refusing to allow my graduation. I am useless within the academy." Hope hung his head, wishing with all his might he could follow his spark and aid the poor, the impoverished and the destitute. He wanted to open a clinic near the mining colonies, treat the former Decepticon Soldiers who had turned to mining, the poorest and hardest working of their numbers.

"The medics of the Academy are not known for their cruelty nor their ignorance. If they keep you there it is for a very good reason. Youngling, come with me, there is something that may help bring you peace." The pair made their way to the furthest corner of the temple, where a dreary statue sat neglected in a forlorn corner.

"This, youngling, is Falcate. He was the greatest medic known to Cybertron, and he was the founder of the Covenant of Light." He gestured to the shimmering, pristine white statue. Falcate was terrifying to behold, multiple crimson optics stared from his elongated face, plates jutted out from the sides of his lower mandible that even with being just a stature, still moved and shifted as if waiting for an age old answer to a silent question.

"I can feel him." Hope breathed, as something deep within his spark stirred.

"I had hoped for this, you hold within your laser core a resonance with the Light, come with me, and be blessed into the covenant. By vowing to the light you are giving your spark to Primus and requesting His guidance, willing to serve as His disciple in preserving the life of all others."

Hope felt his plating tingle and his spark lean towards the statue, "Yes, I would like that." Hope murmured as the vows of joining the covenant sped past in a blur until finally a series of glyphs were carved into his suddenly revealed protoform marking his as a disciple. "There, you are part of the Covenant and one with us. Should you need guidance, or aid, we will know and we will help in any way we can."

Hope smiled, suddenly realizing that for the entirety of his nine vorn life he had quested and searched for this – acceptance. He smiled, bowed and headed back to the dorms. While he felt too excited to recharge in the few remaining groons he had left before shift he could not go against his programming, which would make him perform in a normal manner regardless of how lagging his systems were from lack of recharge. He sighed and he began initiating his recharge protocols as he traveled, he hated feeling sluggish while his body worked at a normal speed. It felt disconcerting, as if he were being controlled by another mech.

* * *

Despite knowing his creator had enforced coercion upon his core systems, Hope was somewhat grateful for them. He had visited the Temple of Light repeatedly since his discovery over the past few joor. Yet as his confidence and calmness grew within, violence continued to escalate beyond the academy walls. The gangs had attacked again this orn, this time trapping every emergency response medic near Stanix, the peaceful Decepticon training base. Hope ran with other medics to the staging sight. They had to transport out to Stanix and aid the local medics there as well as treat any recovered medics from the Iacon Emergency Response Team.

Hope cycled his vents, excited and anxious to leave the Academy. He felt desperate to be able to make some good come from the evil he had done under the coercion within his programming. The halls echoed with the pounding treads of him and his colleges. For the first time in his memory grudges were set aside and all the medics functioned as a cohesive whole. Beside him ran Stradux, the one mech who had made Hope's life here miserable. Yet today Stradux only focused on what needed to be done, and Hope thanked Primus for the blessing.

The crew of twenty assembled medics, assistants, technicians and their accompanying six guards boarded the transport orbiter, launching over the metal skyline of Iacon. "Bots, our brethren of Iacon have vanished from radar. Stranix cannot give us details to their status. Lord Prime has requested two medics to join our forming search crew, headed by Special Autobot Rescue Squad Delta. This is a combined Autobot-Decepticon maneuver, whoever volunteers will be working with both our elite soldiers and elite peacekeepers. Questions?" Chief Senior Surgeon Broadspin towered over every mech seated in the transport, and Hope felt his small size more so than ever before. As the silence stretched on Broadspin nodded approvingly, "Then I need at least two volunteers. Those so inclined, ping your transponders."

Hope pinged his signature frequency to Braodspin before the senior mech even finished speaking, earning himself a slight scowl for his impudence, but Hope did not care. There were mechs that needed help and of everyone on the transport he was the most qualified. Once more the silence in the transport stretched, some fidgeted, and others began low conversations or kept to private comm only. Finally, just as Hope was beginning to think his request had been ignored Broadspin stepped forward once more.

"Well, congratulations, Hope, Stradux. You're on rescue detail. Everyone else, report directly to Guardian Prime. He's heading this operation personally. You know your duties, check all supplies and gear. Hope, Stradux, safe travels. Until all are one."

* * *

Hope refocused his attention, unnerved that his mind had wandered again while repairing a fellow medic. They had found the Iacon medics four orns ago, every one of them damaged severely. Stradux had been working on damage control, leaving final stabilization to Hope. Despite their differences and Stradux having been Hope's bane since awakening at the Academy, they made a decent team. Hope just prayed they were good enough.

"You two have done well. We have lost none." Guardian Prime looked the weary medics over, approving the positive state of the many patients. "Hope, are many stable enough for transport?"

Hope nodded, internally cringing at Stradux's scowl at being overlooked. "Yes, all are stable or will be. Begin the loading with Shunt and Drasus." Hope pointed to the mechs on the opposite end of the triage line as he turned back to his patient, mending the last few slow energon leaks before stepping back for Prime and his team to finish loading the last of the medics. With the last loaded the two medics sagged and gratefully climbed into one of the armored fighters allowing the larger mech to take them safely to the next staging site.

They sagged in waiting seats, sitting in silence as their systems wound down. Around the two healers several warrior models stood in tight ranks, all in silent recharge. The dark, silent figures showed little life signs save for the humming of idling systems.

"Why are you still on-line?" Stradux demanded, startling Hope from his silent musings. Hope startled, found himself on his pedes and backing away from his spiteful, unhappy partner.

"We still have patients and responsibilities waiting for us. Until I know my patients are properly cared for, I won't be able to sleep." Hope looked away and shrugged helplessly. He had tried to cycle down, attempted everything he knew to silence overactive processors while feeling strangely too awake and yet completely exhausted. Yet, nothing worked, his mind kept repeating the injuries from earlier that orn, noting how they seemed off from the report.

Stradux, however stared at Hope with unalloyed disgust as he looked the smaller, white healer over with furious optics. "So that's what you're doing, you're using gels, aren't you? Just to get the glory of saving the most lives! You sicken me." Stradux leapt to his feet, grabbed Hope by an exposed shoulder strut, and threw the smaller medic against the far wall of the transport. Hope screamed as he was flung, his frame effortlessly pushed open the transport's door and fell from the speeding Autobot, crashing into the wall just beyond the vehicle before grinding painfully down the wall to the ground and falling into darkness.

" _Designation: Hope. Set redundant memory suppression …_


	2. First Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironhide must make a decision, does he stay neutral and hide from war, or does he join the fight and make a difference?

It had started one vorn ago, the deafening pounding of bombs with the outside echoing of gunfire. At first there were rumors of invasion from a distant planet slighted long ago during the last Great War. No one realized the true depth of the budding atrocities until nearly a generation's worth of violence had past. That was when the Decepticons, the long time protectors of Cybertron were discovered as the vicious enemy they now faced.

Neutrals were being slaughtered right and left. The Autobots, the policing force of their world, sought to find a means of once again attaining peace. They stood before, protected the non-biased civilian component of Cybertron. Yet it only seemed to anger the Decepticons further and increased their cruelty.

As time wore on the authorities sought to pinpoint the origin of the conflict. At first they believed street gangs had initiated this violence sometime during the long distant reign of Guardian Prime. Then, they claimed that disgruntled employees of the asteroid energon mines were causing the ruckus, taking out their anger of smaller rations and harder work on those who could protect themselves the least. Regardless of its origin, the violence was coming to a head, the energon trade was failing and countless mechanoids were facing starvation. The Elites, Neutrals who dwelt within the highest reaches of the Crystal Towers, still demanded ridiculously high rations without putting forth the work to obtain their fuel, many receiving huge quantities based on where they lived alone.

The energon trade was a biased system. The beautiful and least productive of the elite classes were granted stipends of energon for merely possessing aesthetically pleasing forms or transformation sequences they used to entertain others with. Those who worked the mines however were neither pleasing to the optics nor capable of performing feats of amazement. They worked the mines, former Decepticon soldiers who had outlived their usefulness to the ranks or heavy bots built specifically for the mines, never knowing another life outside their confining tunnels. Those Decepticons who could no longer fight or stand guard to protect Cybertron were sent to the mines, living out their final vorns in servitude to the Neutral elite who controlled the Council.

Finally it was believed that these crushed mechs with nothing to lose were the ones who took out their anger and pure meanness on the peaceful Neutrals who dwelt within the lower cities. Unfortunately, the early reports were wrong. It was not angry employees or thugs fighting over turf – it was war. The Decepticons, seeking to ensure the continuation of the Cybertronian race declared war on the Neutrals who were the guiding force in their world's escalating demise.

The only ones who were willing to do anything were the Volunteer troops of the Autobots. Their commander, Alpha Prime formerly of the Council had placed his troops squarely between the attacking Decepticons and the peaceful Neutrals who worked primarily as the many medics and protoform builders for all factions.

It was merely the beginning of the end, the first of many death throes of the last Golden Age.

* * *

The reverberating assault from outside vibrated the overcrowded halls. Within the dark, claustrophobic spaces its occupants crouched huddled together seeking the small comfort of familiarity in these strange and disturbing times of war. Groups who were once friends had now been forced to become units, their alliances strained as they learned of the underhanded dealings of their once beloved council.

The ruling council many had once thought to be filled with noble mechs had now shown its true face, all within had defied their oaths of office allowing greed to steal from them the loyalty of their people. Failing to lead their fellow Cybertronians as friends they had instead all sought to add to their illicitly gained hordes of energon stashed away in private vaults far from the starving masses that needed it greatly.

There had once been peace on all of Cybertron. The Deceptions were the standing Military guarding their planet and the many explorers and traders, while the Autobots were the policing and exploratory force. For ages the peace of the third Golden age allowed a new race to be born stemming from the need for idle mechs to have entertainment. This new race's numbers began to fill the roles of leaders, artisans and general populace. They made new alt forms, created art out of transformation sequences and demanded the creation of younglings that more resembled organic offspring seen on alien worlds.

Now, those same Neutrals were faced with fleeing, hiding or throwing off their mantels of pacifism for either the label of Decepticon or Autobot. Circles of friends were torn apart, shearing loyalties as feelings became hard. Many, however, found that they could not choose a side. Too afraid to fight they hid, secured themselves deep into forgotten pockets beneath the planet's surface. Here, many hid, some praying to live, others waiting to die.

The continuous pounding from the artillery fire left them little to do, except huddle and fear. The prolonged fear made most look back upon their lives, seeing their beliefs and actions in new light. One amongst their huddled number looked back upon his few vorns of life and found himself wanting to change what he had been. The easy life of being a standing guard for Neutral bound energon supply warehouses had given him a simple, lazy life filled with chasing femmes and mocking his elders. He knew how to fight, it was his passion next to his many weapons.

Only, now he found himself undecided. Should he fight with the Decepticons who had been slighted first? Or side with the Autobots who fought to protect the very mechs that had caused this catastrophe? Spark aching with the indecision, the young mech finally decided to let Primus, their God and Creator guide him. With a short prayer to protect him from his own stupidity he stood, a lone figure in the crowded hall, and saw around him the terrified optics of his friends, neighbors and once lovers, all confused and frightened.

They were Neutrals, yes and so was he, but to the last mech they were hard workers. None of them were the elite that kept private hordes. When times got hard they shared what they had, going on half rations so the entire block could stay on-line. The young mech tightened his fists, finally knowing where his spark would lead him. Overhead the pounding stopped, the will of Primus giving him this moment to take his new found fervor and escape.

"I ain't dyin' here fer another mech's war. Ah'm joinin' the Autobots an makin' a run fer it now. Any who want to fight the Decepticon creeps who waged war on us cause o' them slaggers in the council can come with, but I ain't forcin' ya. Primus protect ya'll cause I can't do it alone." The young mech spun on his heel and raced to the back exit, hoping to find a side byway that would allow him access to the surface without leading the Decepticons straight to the others.

"Ironhide, wait!" A mini-bot stood, his grey and purple coloring allowing him to blend into the darkness, "I'm coming with. I know, I'm a medic and I'm supposed to remain neutral to all quarrels, but if you're going out there to get yourself slagged then I'm coming with. You've always been there to watch my back when I've had an unruly patient, I guess now I'll return the favor."

Several of the many crowded forms stood from their crouches close to the floor, following Maincharger to Ironhide. The rest remained huddled close to each other and the ground all seeking to keep from being pulled with the suicidal mob. "Then let's get goin', time's a-wastin' an them 'Con's won't wait fer long ta start up again." The group strode to the back of the long chamber; slipping through a hidden access tunnel and faded, blending into the darkness of the underground until they found a disused freeway leading to the surface.

They folded into their alt modes, each riding low above the ground on pockets of air as they sped along the byway seeking the long unseen surface and the true face of the war. Whispered words were shared between their internal comm-links as they remembered better times and old familiar faces long lost. The journey was long, none recharging much through the resumed assault that seemed to now come from all directions.

According to their chronometers they had already been on the road for four orns when the bombardment finally ceased. It should have allowed them to cycle their vents easier, yet it only made them tense. Unable to hear where the fighting was centered, they now crept in their root forms clinging to the shadowed edges of the byway seeking out the many sheltered places as they moved along continually hoping to not accidentally run into a hiding Decepticon.

* * *

"More of the former neutrals are joinin' the Decepticons than not. Superior communications and control of the media are biasing their view on all news feeds. They're makin' the Neutrals out to be at the root of the conflict. The constant demands of the high Elites' for greater quantities of energon are being pinned on the working class Neutrals. Those who only work in fine art and entertainment, or who exist purely by their creator's will alone are becoming the scapegoats for the Council's hoardin'.

"No one's been listenin' to Prime's pleas that all council members should undergo a mandatory inventory check to confirm declared energon stores. The Decepticon commanders want to make others suffer for all that their retired comrades have been put through and the Neutrals were their easiest targets!" The Autobot on comm detail was ranting despite the many alerts and commands being broadcast through his consul.

His duty was to monitor all inbound and outgoing communication s for any hacks by the Decepticons or antagonizing Neutral factions. Although there were several comm workers that rotated shifts, he was one of the most skilled, being able to directly plug into the networks due to his unusual alt-mode.

"Blaster, I know you don't agree with this war, but when you've been around as long as I have you'll see that there is no easy way to end a conflict. What the Decepticons is doin' is wrong, but we can't change that with words alone." The aged Autobot sat heavily next to the younger bot his aged face creased with a kind smile.

"There are battles easily fought, and then there are battles easily won. Most times, you can't have both. You watch those messages, update me and Prime, and keep looking for ways to turn their tactics back on them. Even the slightest advantage could save lives even if it doesn't win the war."

"Okay, Kup." Blaster replied, the self-doubt plaguing him for not being able to do more for his unit. The pair fell silent, each waiting for Prime to arrive on scene to finally lead the military now that the final attempts at negotiation had failed. The Council still hoarded their energon, the Decepticons still targeted the Neutrals. High Consulate Max Mixer had refused to heed the demands of the mine workers who claimed that there was enough for all and then some. He along with the majority of the council members had allegedly hoarded a store of energon equaling half of Cyberton's core capacity. Their perceived greed had forced the Decepticon's hand in this battle, and now with lines drawn there was no turning back.

"Ooh we got an update and it ain't good, the entire council is evacuatin'. We got sixteen ships launching simultaneously in different directions." Blaster reported as he delved deeper into the ongoing feeds Kup stood from his perch, standing to guard the young communications specialist. They needed this youngling to stay on-line. His talents were second to none, and not easily replaceable.

"He's correct the council members are fleeing. Max Mixer was destroyed earlier by something I've never seen before. A grey mech capable of flight without an aerial alt mode ripped the Consulate in half, right through the spark chamber. We're on our own now with the Neutrals as our burden to bear. Most of the higher Elites have fled as well. Cybertron has lost nearly one-third its population today." The speaker stepped fully into the room as she spoke, her massive frame filling the room, forcing Kup to look up at her.

"Solus Prime" Kup saluted, his back to Blaster who remained submerged in his data streams.

"Kup, how is the lad holding up?" Solus asked kindly, her light gold face creased with concern.

"He's holding up well, Prime. The youngling is smart and he's a crack reader. I haven't seen a mech with his skills since I landed on Planet Xeleon in the –"

"Old friend, this is not the time for your war stories. Get Blaster out of that data stream and move out. We've got incoming." Prime interrupted curtly forcing Kup into action.

"Here, Prime. I figured you might want this. Here are the destination coordinates of all the Consul members. In case we actually see the end of this warfare." Blaster spoke up handing a data chit to their commander. Prime looked at the tiny data chit, knowing that the only hope for restoring balance to their world lay in ensuring those who had instigated this atrocity came to justice. With a heavy spark she merged the data chit into the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, in the hopes that some future Prime would be able to correct the misdeeds of this era.

"Move out, we'll regroup outside of Kaon." Solus ordered as she fell into her alt form, the massive form of an energon transport vehicle filling the room until she moved forward enough to allow Kup to fall to his smaller alt form with Blaster's alt form resting comfortably upon the dash. The three traveled swiftly, the two commanders rolling quietly through the late orns finally reaching the rendezvous point just before shift change for the new cycle.

The troops cheered as their commanders approached finally allowing those left in charge to defer to them for guidance after far too long a time of being in control of an army none knew how to run. The cheering drowned out all other noises, including Blaster's final warning before a massive explosion rocked the land. Plumes of flame and shrapnel tore into Solus Prime and Kup sending Blaster flying from his perch to skid painfully across the battlefield shrapnel tearing into him leaving only a small tattered communicator lying forgotten upon the ground.

* * *

Maincharger sighed as he walked through the Academy med bay. Everywhere he looked he saw scared recruits and hopeless wrecks of once proud mechs and femmes. The mechs being cared for here were the roughest, meanest mechs on the Autobot force. Some had been nearly dismantled by the constant warfare while others had developed fatal glitches in their processors and had been rendered nearly comatose, only their sparks still functioning along with their frames that constantly twitched in a sick parody of functionality. It was his hope that they could be defragmented, debugged and returned to active duty, but their chances were grim. He had the skills and the best equipment to repair them with. Yet few received the care they actually needed, he just lacked the time and enough skilled assistants to do the smaller tasks that took up all of his time. There were too many patients and students, but not enough full medics to take care of and train them all. He needed more skilled hands in the bay.

"Maincharger! There is an emergency at the entrance!" Delta cried as she ran into the med bay in terror. "We've got energon septicemia, full mech unresponsive with green, bleeding optics." the terror in her voice was great and for good reason. Mechs with such symptoms occurred only when they had become addicted to their fuel source. The fuel lines flooded with the excess fuel and the taint of unprocessed energon turned the optic lenses green while micro vessles in the lens burst with the pressure of too much energon in the lines. If left alone for too long they eventually cut their own lines just to stave off the pain of the tainted energon eating at their lines.

"Then we'd better hurry, grab my kit. The poor spark probably lost his unit in an attack." The aged grey and purple mech raced along behind his younger apprentice. The pair folding mid stride down into their alt modes seeking greater speed to ensure the survival of one more mech.

Maincharger had seen many things in his long existence and little surprised him these days, but the sight of a blackened and tarnished mech that shimmered an iridescent white beneath the soot that covered him from helm to treads with the stripped down build of a slave-bot could not have surprised him more.

"Primus, it's a creator bot" Maincharger swore, ignoring the confused glance from Delta as he knelt down by their newest patient. "These bots were outlawed before the end of the last golden age."

The shimmering bot lay sprawled upon the steps of the Academy its jaw a raw silver of fresh metal. The lower mandible was the wrong make and size for its face making the poor creature look malformed, disturbing the very spark of Maincharger as he knelt over the larger mech. In its left hand it clutched a stack of slim plates bundled together in a miniature magnetic field generator. Each miniature rectangle was slim and delicate, the topmost one bearing a creator's glyph. Main charger looked over the bot in stunned shock. The poor wreck had no alt mode, no armor and no subspace storage. The creature was a glorified protoform and he instantly felt sorry for the thing.

"Delta, hand me the energon drainage pump. We need to get this started before it goes caustic. It  _is_  a creator. Designed to build and spark bots custom ordered by those with the credits to afford its maintenance, or the fees of its keeper." Maincharger explained as he set up the drain. "It needs to be watched, and if it becomes functional again, kept from all spare parts and free sparks. The last creator bot was decommissioned well before my creator's creator's time. That one had begun building terminally glitched protoforms. They would crawl off the manufacturing table, find the nearest populated square and begin dismantling themselves before exploding when any approached to stop them. It was so traumatizing there was a rash of mass suicides." Maincharger fell silent, suddenly noticing a strange vibration within the frame beneath his hands. "By Primus! It's talking. No creator bot has ever been given vocal processors. Who would do this?"

The pair leant closer to the frame, each activating vocal scanners within their audio processors straining to detect patterns in the creator bot's vocalizations. As they enhanced and re-enhanced the static filled and garbled words they recognized a litany they knew by rote and stared in awe at the tattered frame beneath their hands.

"A medic is neutral to order or faction, he shall not take sides in conflict or anger. He will aid all and protect those under his care from harm and injury wherever he may hold his practice. He will do no harm. All are his patients, none shall come to harm under his care and never shall a medic take that which Primus has given. –"

"It's repeating the Oath." Delta whispered with trembling hands. "How does a slave know the Oath? Only medics with proper training are taught the full oath." Her sad yellow optics looked over the shimmering white form before them and sighed. "What kind of chance does this thing have?"

"Slim to none. It's got more energon in its lines than any six mechs ought to have."

"Extra capacity – fill six protos without losing functionality." The bot murmured clutching the magnetic field in its hand tighter as it slowly fell off-line, blue optics of such a rare brilliant shade of cobalt shimmering through the green haze just before they were claimed by the darkness of being in recharge.

"We, my friend, have a very lucky mech on our hands." Maincharger sighed as he stood. "We'll need a transport to carry this guy to med bay. I'm not trusting two mini-bots to carry this large a mech." The pair stood guard until one of the larger medics in training came to carry the creator bot to med bay. The pair never speaking of their suspicion of what their newest patient really was, or that they had come to think of it as a he.

* * *

"So, what is a creator bot with vocal processors doing this far into the slums? The Academy has not been in a good part of Cybertron since Megatron came on-line." Reccus looked the still recharging mech over in the silence of the med bay. The CMO of the Prime detail was on loan temporarily while the Ancients identified their next Prime as their previous one, Terminus lay in the Memorial awaiting deconstruction.

"I haven't the slightest notion as to what he's doing here, but I do know that if I can get him functional again I just might have the help I've been looking for, I'm getting too old to run this place solo. Besides, he looks strong enough to face down half of the front liners that make my job so difficult. If he can't handle them, then we'll look into more drastic measures!" Maincharger replied firmly as he worked on yet another replacement arm assembly for old Ironhide. The medics looked to where the old guard lay in recharge, fresh repair welds crisscrossing his frame once more.

"You'd think he'd learn by now that he can't keep throwing himself before every Prime he serves and expect to keep them on-line. He's been the personal guard for six now, and all of them have nearly brought him down with them. I'm constantly afraid that the next Prime will take him to Primus along with half our numbers." Reccus sighed and rubbed the back of his helm in resignation.

"I sometimes wonder what the Ancients are thinking when they assign us our Primes. Terminus Prime never fought a day in his life before he was chosen, neither had Contact. If we had just listened to Blaster we might not have lost Solus. I miss that youngling."

The pair fell silent, Maincharger bending once more to work on the assembly. Neither spoke of the dilapidated wreck that remained of Blaster. Both medics had worked over the poor youngling's frame over the many passing vorns, neither had accomplished anything. There was little they had been able to do for him aside from stabilizing the mech in stasis. Neither held any hope for reviving the red mech as it had been so long since he had been damaged and the complex transformation sequence along with his extensive use of subspace condensation to utilize his alt form was beyond even their level of training.

Reccus stood, sliding the assembly away from Maincharger's steady hand. "If you keep tooling with this you'll reconfigure his transformation sequence. Come on, I'll reattach it for you." The elder medic led the way to Ironhide's table. In silence the assembly was reattached leaving the medics with little do aside from walk the rounds of the med ward. Too many lay in deeply fragmented stasis, and there was little they could do for them.

Even as they just paced through the ward the many wounded forced both medics to constantly take care of one patient or another. Energon drips had to be replaced, manic fighters restrained as old bonds were worn through with their constant struggles. It was exhausting knowing they only had a few astroseconds for each patient, and even that was too long a time to devote to any one spark when so many had to be cared for .

* * *

It came on-line slowly, diagnostics racing through its system ensuring that all protocols were still in place. Optics scanned the curtained off repair table it rested on noting the many tools placed nearby just in reach for the local medic.

No restraints bound it to the table allowing it to sit up. It noted in passing that its surface plating gleamed once more, allowing a tiny pulse satisfaction to pass through its lines. Its masters had never allowed it to be filthy and though they were now no longer a threat it still was more content with a clean frame. Standing silently it paced the small space its table took up. Beyond the curtain the soft conversation of mechs could be heard.

Such was of no concern to it, however. It bent over the many racks of tools identifying each one, inspecting and noticing how most were worn. A twitch of annoyance moved its shoulder, an unconscious glitch it had developed over its existence. The tray was pulled towards the repair berth, each tool sharpened and repaired. White hands handled each tool with experienced care. Within the joor each tool was brought as close to its original state as possible, some beyond repair were scanned, copied within the massive chest, manufactured within a miniature factory fueled by energon and trace elements alone.

It looked the tools over with a critical optics, cycling vents as it suddenly realized it was tired and lay back down for recharge. Processors stilling it slipped into the depths of recharge, its processors replaying memories best left forgotten, pressing misdeeds to trouble the quiet spark that shuddered with unrecognized grief deep within its chest. Beneath all recent distresses that plagued his resting mind a disturbing voice lost to conscious memory repeated a mantra from long ago.

* * *

"Ah'm sure glad you two finally came back, whatever you've got back there was makin' a racket like you've never heard before. Sounded like the Unmaker was crawlin' from the depths o' the pit." Ironhide shuddered and looked back to the curtained off repair berth with a trail of fear glowing behind his optics.

"Ironhide, we found a slave bot, we don't know what it's capable of, but my experience has taught me to never let slaves get a hold of only partially functioning mechs." Reccus looked down at Ironhide calmly, "It's time to get you out of here, we'll deal with the slave."

Ironhide glanced from the unusually quiet medics to the now silent curtain and nodded, standing and limping for the door, his wounds were patched, he would heal back on base, then stand at yet another Prime's side willing to die for yet another who would undoubtedly find himself in over his processing capacity.

The pair watched the guard limp away and sighed. They had hoped this slave would be able to be salvaged, but if he was already attempting something when they were not around then they would be forced to put him in permanent stasis lock. The thought was disheartening, but they both knew their duties went to their patients first, slaves would always have to come second, if at all.

"Let's get this over with." Maincharger shook his head sadly, wishing there was another option open for the slave. Reaching up he pulled back the curtain and stilled, watching the slave recharge, the stack of tiny plates once more held tightly to his chest.

"I don't want to off-line him." Reccus sighed taking in the image of the distraught creator clinging desperately to what was left of its toils.

"Maybe we won't have to." Maincharger replied with a hopeful smile, "He's been keeping himself occupied." They looked over the tools, now the best in their med ward, each shone brightly the old tarnish and dulled blades renewed.

"Let's switch the trays, maybe we can keep him here a little longer." They took the repaired tools with them, swapping out another tray and gathering all of the older tools that had been cast aside as being beyond repair. The little curtained off area the creator rested in was too small for all the tools, sighing in resignation Maincharger took down the screen, filling the room with old tools and left.

* * *

It on-lined, knowing immediately that things had changed since it last had on-lined its optics. Sitting up it took in the tools placed around the room on every available surface, and the lone ration of energon sitting in the middle of the room. Unknowingly a small smile twitched the corners of its misshapen face, it would be kept, its new masters allowing it to serve as a maintenance slave. Such a fate was acceptable.

Immediately it began to work, repairing and cleaning tools as it worked, sometimes remanufacturing them entirely. All were replaced with the greatest care and forgotten. It worked thorough every tool in the room, never responding to its occasional visitors though he monitored them closely, silently tensing every time they approached the berth he had rested on and the tiny bundle of plates that rested there, still contained within their magnetic shield.

During its keepers third visit the short one came too close to the little plates reaching to touch the only things the slave creator knew to be precious. It responded without processing its actions, grabbing the nearest repaired scalpel it lunged at the small mech, slamming the scalpel into his hand, pinning the offending appendage to the table as it grabbed the plates and retreated, huddled trembling and nervous against the back wall. Cornered, knowing it would be off-lined for attacking a keeper, the creator knelt, lowering its head for the terminating strike that was sure to come. The termination strike was always through the spark, instant and clean. The slave pressed the small bundle against its chest plate, the strike would pierce all that remained of what had once been, allowing it to finally reunite with those it had failed to protect.

"Well, I guess that's all the proof we need. He can't be a drone if he's willing to die protecting something." Recus stated calmly as he removed the scalpel from the thin plating, noting the precision with which the blade had been placed as not a single line or cable had even been scratched. Only the plating had been damaged and even that was minor.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" Maincharger approached the slave cautiously still trying to get his spark out of his intakes and back in its chamber where it belonged. The slave had borne an expression worthy of the fiercest Decepticon. Faceplates twisted into a mask of fury there had been an actual spark gleaming in his amazingly blue optics.

"I don't think he realizes were talking to him." Reccus blew out a gust of exhaust, "I really hate doing this." He knelt before the slave, scanning the creature and the plates it held so dearly before finally acquiring its designation.

"What are you doing?" Maincharger asked as he welded the torn dermal plating back together with a microwelder.

"Every slave is embedded with an identifying tag, this one's creators were sick though. They gave him the designation 3-1-0." Reccus looked Maincharger over and smirked at the younger mech's blank expression. "I keep forgetting you're too young to remember the old days. Back then the signs for medics all bore the numbers 3-1-0, it referred to the points of a triangle, its center and the termination point of any line."

"I still don't understand." Maincharger replied bewilderedly.

"During the last part of the Golden Age it was thought that the three factions formed a triangle, and that as long as each existed there would be strength for our species. The medics stood at the center of everything the single point between existence and deactivation. They were thought of as the ratchet that kept our species from destroying itself they brought together the three sides of the triangle to the single point they protected as they guarded against the zero of nothingness."

"Oh." Maincharger looked over the slave that still knelt before them unmoving and unflinching as it awaited deactivation.

"Three-one-zero, return to work" Reccus commanded, sounding harsh and uncaring, and hating himself for doing so. The creator stood, face pointed towards the floor as it kept the little plates with it and returned to where it had last been working, claiming and replacing the scalpel as it passed.

"Well, he knows his designation. Now what?" The medics stood side by side and stared at their guest watching with critical intensity as the silent bot moved about its self assigned duties.

"Three-One-Zero, finish your work, then take your energon. I want a full diagnostic run on you next duty cycle." Maincharger finally spoke up.

"Diagnostics functional – minor repairs required for acquired vocal and mandible assemblies. Three-one-zero can perform repairs. Repairs require new plating for neck dermal replacement. Mandible assembly requires recalibration and plating to incorporate into facial structure." The static filled voice that issued from the repair bot was dual toned, higher of a femme and lower of a mech. The two voices were out of synch with each other creating an echo as he spoke.

"Okay, if you want to do the repairs on yourself there will be some consequences." Maincharger rumbled, "First, you will learn to speak like a normal mech. Second, I refuse to call you a number. Find yourself a designation. Third, you will let me look at those plates you're so possessive of. And fourth, I need to know how you came across your vocal and jaw assemblies."

"Slave protocols prevent compliance. Unable to fulfill requests, data classified – cannot be revealed." The bot continued to work, unfazed by the questioning. Maincharger and Reccus looked at one another in stunned surprise.

No one had ever mentioned enforced protocols being placed upon a slave bot before. They were just created and the parameters allowing free will were left out, or at least that was what the rumors all spoke of. "Slave protocols, deactivate them." Reccus requested hoping this would be an easy fix, knowing that he would have to return to his detail soon and that too many patients beyond those double doors required their attention.

"Master command code invalid." The slave replied and stilled in his work, face twisting into a dark scowl. He turned his head looking directly at the medics for the first time. "Three-one-zero requesting medical assistance – actions require extensive repairs." With a swift motion the bot grabbed the nearest lazer scalpel activating it as he thrust it deep within his neck barely grazing his main energon lines and frying circuitry as it passed through the thick cables supporting his neck and into the lower portion of his cranial periphrial processor banks.

"Damnit! He's totaled his protocol drives!" The medics immediately bent to work rushing through emergency repairs striving to keep ahead of a cascade failure. The protocol drives were directly linked to the main processors through micro energon tubules and wiring. If one became too badly damaged the tubules would rupture and drown the other resulting in complete processor failure and force the spark to be harvested for resparking. Neither wanted to lose the knowledge this mech held. The bot had already repaired items beyond their technical grasp and if he was this good with just tools, what could he accomplish with Cybertronians?

* * *

Slight pain brought him from recharge, pulling the sluggish processors into functionality. Emotions long cut off filled his lines, excitement, resignation, grief, hope –  _rage_. It felt amazing to feel again, and he was grateful despite the deep seated anger and fury that he could not completely grasp. He on-lined his optics staring at the now familiar ceiling of the med ward, "Heh, guess it worked after all."

"You! How dare you do something so irresponsible?" Maincharger raged at the larger bot still resting on the repair berth with trembling fury. "If we had been even one microsecond slower you would have been in reclamation instead of the med ward!"

"No offense, but you two weren't doing anything and I was fraggin' sick of playing lackey." The mech replied evenly, the curse flowing from his vocal processor smoothly with the tone of one experienced in such language.

"Wh-what?" Maincharger looked the white mech over, ignoring the still disturbing voice. The blank stare from the brilliant optics was gone replaced with a darkly brilliant angry light from his perfectly round optics filled with anguish and anger that caused Maincharger to tremble at its intensity. This had not been a pro-programmed slave bot, this was an enslaved mech. The realization was sickening, and terrifying.

The white mech glared down at the mini-bot, looking the smaller mech over with piercing optics. "You and the other  _keeper_  had requests my protocols kept me from answering. I believe that issue has been rectified, I can now process your requests."

"W-we want-ted an alternate designation for you, full repairs and for you to speak like a normal mech." Maincharger stammered nervously, suddenly feeling like a youngling before the strange mech.

"Designation Three-one-zero, previously requested self-repairs. I believe my speech patterns now match requested parameters. Do I get my repairs or do I have to listen to myself echo til the next Golden Age?" The creator scowled evenly at the mini-bot, challenging the other to contradict him.

"Your vocal assembly?" Reccus asked pointedly, staring evenly at the white mech despite the tremor that shuddered through his frame at the other's intense gaze.

"Circle Dancer." The mech scowled, "She killed younglings, I killed her. She didn't need this anymore." He looked to the magnetic shielded stack of plating. "I may have been slaved, but I could still feel. I created each youngling from the primordial code up. These are all that remain of them."

"Fine, Three-one-zero, you can get your repairs." Maincharger replied looking away from the white bot and the still gaping wound in his neck.

"Don't call me that! Fragged megavorns of that designation, slaved to sadistic fraggers. I'm no protector against the Unmaker."

"Then what should we call you?"

The bot looked to the side repair table where the small stack of miniature plates rested. A sad smile pulled at his pirated lip components, twisting his visage into a sick parody of a creator. He reached his arm up, grasping the small bundle, reclaiming that which he held so dear. "Ratchet – that which tightens."


	3. Beginning the Tapestry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet joins the Iacon Academy and finds some things that ring of deja vu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thetacons are the frame type from the Bay-verse movies. Steelhand is movie-verse Ironhide. The original G1 Ironhide is still himself. All the G1, War for Cybertron and similar body styles are all 'New Type' frames.

Ratchet stared down the narrow hall, taking in the many doors opening left and right, leading to narrow rooms with small cots, paired desks and shelves lining the walls. He felt disoriented here, standing in this claustrophobic, echoing hall. Within his processors he knew this place should be wide and spacious. His mind supplied him with an image of the place without the innumerable doors instead where the rooms now stood were thousands of heavy metal planks that slid into the wall, allowing the space to be used for other things as needed.

“Something wrong?” Ratchet’s guide demanded, pulling the new medic trainee from his thoughts.

“No,” Ratchet replied distantly. He stood taller than he had when Maincharger first found him nearly septic from energon poisoning. Now, in a new frame Ratchet was a whole new mech, yet his memories still haunted him. “But, were these rooms always here?”

His guide halted mid-step and huffed before turning to scowl at the smaller white mech. “I don’t _know_ , my position here is as drill sergeant to new recruits. I am not a historian.” The dark mech rumbled, his voice gravely as his optics glared out of his silver face plates.

“Sorry,” Ratchet sighed then stepped closer, once more following his host as ghostly images of mechs his processors remembered yet he had never met flitted up and down the halls, some sleeping on the strange pillars that slid horizontally from the walls. “Steelhand? What would it take for me to get training? As a fighter?”

Once more the heavily built black Thetacon mech turned on his complex pede assembly, glaring at the smaller mech. “I don’t have time for games. You are a medic. Medics _do not_ fight.” He snorted, “Not _your_ kind.”

Ratchet glared at the bigger mech and the implication that the Thetacon tribe of the southern pole of Cybertron, one of the oldest tribes and the most war like, could dictate which of the New Lines could and could not fight. Ratchet glared indignantly, his spark flaring with fury. “Then what the frag do you expect us to do with wounded soldiers when _your_ kind are not around? Let them die on the field waiting for the fighting to cease before bringing in your medics, most of which have joined the Decepticons?”

“It is as Primus wills.” Steelhand replied stiffly, his multifaceted armor plating shifting and flaring in indignation as he turned once more. That was precisely how battle worked. Fighters fought, and died. Healers did the best with what they could salvage from the wreckage when it was safe for them to enter.

“That’s fragging idiotic. Get a healer within reach of a battle site where we can perform triage and get the wounded the slag out of there. Instead of this moronic devotion to follow what Primus wills how about we use what he’s slagging given us?”

“Are you volunteering?” The black mech loomed closer, bright blue optics glaring hotly on the healer.

“No. I’m fraggin’ telling you that if you don’t recruit me I’ll make my own way out there.” Ratchet threatened loudly ignoring the many heads that peaked out of the assorted rooms, optics widening to see a lightly armored New Line medic student dressing down the feared Thetacon, Steelhand, head training master at Iacon Academy

Steelhand sighed, crossing his massive arms across his chest while the equally massive cannons within hummed lightly as if amused. “Give me one good reason to take you on, you young punk, instead of taking you down a peg?”

Ratchet looked Steelhand over once, scrutinizing his rare frame type before swiftly darting in, taking the mech by surprise. Nimble fingers jabbed into transformation seams striking a well hidden pressure junction that froze Steelhand in his tracks. “You have three primary energon lines here, here and here.” Ratchet touched the plating just underneath each lightly armored line, making Steelhand tense, optics bright but unable to move. “Two weak spots in your plating from poorly repaired injuries here,” Ratchet tapped a slightly lighter patch of plating just beside Steelhand’s spark, “And here.” He tapped another on the larger mech’s side. “Both of which lead to your fuel pumps, and if hit at the correct angle, your spark.”

Ratchet stepped back, pulled a long scalpel from subspace and snapped it into place into an extension bracer for use on the massive sized Autobots when the extra length was needed to reach deep internals, “And with just my meager medical kit I can terminate you in sixteen different ways in less than two astroseconds – that’s faster than you cannons can charge up.” Ratchet lifted up the normally benign looking scalpel, but Steelhand recognized the threat instantly, optics bright and vents huffing as battle protocols warred with his frozen mobility functions.

“I can handle myself, but Command would probably prefer not to have their medics killed from their own ignorance. I know medicine, but not how to survive a battle field.” He stared Steelhand down as the effects of the temporary movement lock wore off. In a flash Steelhand roared, lunging at the smaller medic – and found himself flat on his face unable to move with a humming laser scalpel buzzing near his now completely exposed primary energon line in the rear of his neck.

“Now,” Ratchet stood, sub spacing the lethal repair tools, “Name me one reason why you should not take on this _young punk_?”

Steelhand spluttered, optics flaring brightly and uncertain. “What in the name of the pits are you?” the big mech asked aghast as he backed warily from the younger mech, hidden arm cannons whirring within their housing waiting to come to life.

Strangely steady optics met his, within them an ageless light that flared with disturbing vibrancy, “I’ve seen the Unmaker, stood in His shadow. Where Primus averted His eyes, Unicron quivered and refused to take me.” Ratchet replied, holding a snigger at the bold faced foolishness he was spouting. He expected the older looking mech to cry pit-slag, instead the other scrambled away arms tense and ready to fight.

“Fine, ya get yer chance.” Steelhand glared down on Ratchet from a safe distance away, “But if you fail _once,_ you leave the Autobot academy and _never_ come back.”

“Agreed.” Ratchet replied calmly, optics holding Steelhand’s resolutely. He smirked when the warrior was the first to look away.

“How would you like to put the fear of Primus into some Pit-slagged morons?” Steelhand finally asked, once he had gotten his spark out of his intakes. Standing tall, arms crossed casually against his black chassis his fierce blue optics pierced Ratchet’s recognizing a mech with a fire in his spark on par with any proud Thetacon.

“Sure,” Ratchet shrugged, “What do you need me to do?” In that instant he transformed. Gone were the ageless optics filled with an agony worthy of the Smelter. Instead there stood a young, eager healer submitting to his protocols to assist and serve wherever needed.“Sure,” Ratchet shrugged, “What do you need me to do?” In that instant Ratchet transformed before Steelhand’s very optics, gone were the ageless optics filled with an agony worthy of the Smelter. Instead there now stood a young, eager healer submitting to his protocols to assist and serve wherever needed.

“Get my aft headed recruits to stop being slagging idiots and getting themselves nearly terminated in simple training exercises.” Steelhand smirked, recognizing Ratchet for what he was, the young mech was a reformat. Regardless of the life he lived before this; he was a young mech, one who probably had latent memory packets from his previous life telling him that he was older than his new designation’s vorns.

Ratchet grinned, pristine silver-white denta barring in a nearly feral smile as he rumbled maliciously, “My pleasure.”

 

 *** *** ***

 

'At first, we all thought it was a joke. A poorly planned prank from the likes or Steelhand or Sextant, one of those who could never pull an honest prank that was actually funny. Unfortunately it was real; the long standing rumors that had been around since before I was even sparked were not rumors but the precursor to the horror that _he_ heralded.'

Hound leaned back against the barracks wall and heaved a massive jet of heated air through his intakes seeking to cool his overtaxed systems from the day's training. Cooling fans working at maximum he wondered if this torture would ever end, but from the look of his drill sergeant he knew this was only the beginning.

"Alright troops move out! We're not here to watch crystals grow." Drill Sergeant Steelhand growled as he urged his last unit of recruits through their final maneuvers before they shipped out. This batch like so many before held those who were too old or too young, those of the right age for the fighting were either already claimed by the two factions or had fled to the hidden Neutral camps that nestled within the subterranean depths of Cybertron, or like most were residing as one with Primus.

Hound moved into formation, he along with the thirty-eight others of the squad moved in step, their heavy treads pounding into the thick metallic landscape that comprised all of Cybertron. It was with growing horror and abject terror that they found themselves moving closer to the medical ward of the Academy, they knew this day was coming and it was the most terrifying day of their lives.

"You're kidding, right? We're not really going to see – _him_ –" Landquaker gulped from his position three rows in front of Hound, "Are we?" The massive brown mech stared at Steelhand with abject terror written across his faceplates, and around him the others all trembled as well.

"We're in for the pits!" Streamline moaned beside Steelcracker. The two heavily armored frontline heavy artillery fighters shuddered in unison.

"This isn't a time for balking! Now get, the lot of you before I tell Sentinel his latest batch of recruits are a load of spark-less cowards who aren't worth their skid-plates." The drill sergeant rumbled dangerously, his fingers straying towards his ever present blaster that had scored more than one recruit's backside. The column of recruits shifted into gear all jog marching the distance to the Academy and the horror waiting within.

No one knew where the dictator of the medical ward had come from, or what forsaken Pit had spawned him. All anyone knew of the senior medic was that he had a mean temper and hated fools. It was rumored that he had appeared out of nowhere. One day just appearing through the rolling dust of the latest Decepticon attack wrench in one hand, blaster in the other and drenched in enemy energon with his signature malicious sneer across his face. No one had ever seen a medic with a blaster before, but it was rumored that he kept one always at his side.

The recruits marched up the steps of the Academy, their fuel racing too fast within their strained lines as they finally approached the med bay. Their processors all replayed the horror story of how _he_ took down Steelhand with his empty hands and a scalpel. The story was older than most of them and terrifying as they realized the mech none of them could over power could be taken down with ease by a mere healer.

With relays trembling they lined up before the solid double doors, all flinching as one with the hushed whoosh of the doors opening. They could feel the terror flooding their systems as they stared down – a mini-bot?

Streamline had to keep from laughing, his intakes stuttering with the effort to suppress his mirth. This entire time, they had been afraid of one sorry, aging mini-bot. If he could he would be laughing out loud, and from the suppressed choking around him the others were finding not laughing just as difficult.

"Quit blocking the doors. Steelhand, get your crew out of Maincharger's way before I do it for them." The gravelly voice stilled the recruits' mirth, freezing their lines once more. As one they shifted as far to the right as they could to allow the mini-bot to pass.

Steelcracker shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, he and Streamline led the column, and now they were to be the first to meet the Unmaker himself, the traumatizing medic of the Academy – they had to face _Ratchet_. Fear ate into his spark before any orders could be given, propelling him into the bay. Marching smartly he and the others trailed into the sterile space each looking carefully for the infamous mech.

Only they found themselves in before a youngish medic with red crosses on his white shoulders working with surety upon the massive form of Sky-Lynx, the strange mech's spark guttering as Ratchet strove to restore fuel lines leading to his spark chamber.

"Get your sorry afts against the back wall. As soon as Sky-Lynx here is stabilized I'll deal with you." The medic never looked up, his hands flying across his patient with unprecedented speed creating a type of stationary dance in time with the many nurses and assistants that bustled through the ward underscored by his loud, violent cursing. The dance of healing and throwing oaths had many of the soldiers to be flinching until finally the shrill beeping of the spark monitor stilled momentarily before taking up its normal chirping tone as it pulsed in time with the slowly stabilizing spark.

"Woo-hoo, what hit me?" Sky-Lynx slowly came on-line as the medic made swift repairs swapping out scorched and twisted plating and wiring. "Yeowch! Oh, is this how you treat your wounded – gah! – heroes?"

"This is how I treat slagging stupid morons who think ramming Megatron is a worthwhile past time! If I ever have to work on your sorry slagging scrap heap aft in this condition ever again you'll be lucky to be scraping rust out of the Hall of the Ancients." Ratchet threatened savagely as he ripped through more damaged plating roughly from the mech, eliciting anguished cries from his patient.

"But – argh – I can't fit in there!" Sky-Lynx protested vehemently.

Ratchet leaned forward his hand yanking his patient by the pectoral ridge until their gazes met and stared down balefully before rumbling darkly with treacherous optics, "You will when I get through with you."

Against the back wall the recruits were shaking from pure terror. Sky-Lynx was large enough to carry six mechs and Prime in his hold without difficulty. He was one of the largest bots on the force, and Ratchet could change that with an angry whim. The unit fell into trembling silence, praying to walk from med bay in one piece, ready to face Megatron, the lesser of the two evils.

Finally after seeming joors of strained, silent waiting as the healer cursed out his patient, Ratchet deftly moved Sky-Lynx from the surgical table to a recovery ward, entrusting the once more recharging flyer to a phalanx of nurses.

"Fragging slagger." Ratchet groused under his breath as he cast a well hidden worried gaze on the overly-heroic, borderline neurotic idiot. He hated caring too much, and yet with each patient that was exactly what he did. Turning from the recovery ward Ratchet pulled his fiercest scowl and stormed to the utterly silent, fearful newbies. "Now," Ratchet wiped his hands on a clean cloth, sterilizing them as he moved, "Who's next?" He asked with spark-freezing eagerness, the malicious gleam in his optics making every last mech press further back against the wall, none willing to face _Ratchet_.

"Streamline, front and center. We've a schedule to keep!" Steelhand barked galvanizing his troops into reluctant action as each found their way onto the medic's tables, one after the other. Each was looked over, their systems given full diagnostics and upgrades before they were finally engraved with the Autobot insignia. The haze of their faction seared into their plating replaced the painted patch they wore from their first day of boot until Steelhand deemed them worthy of being sent them off to war.

Ratchet smirked at every whimper they emitted as he stared them down. He was the Unmaker himself, and he would put the fear of stupidity into them if it off-lined him, and it made them aware of what they would face beyond the borders of Iacon out in the battle fields and frontlines as they faced down the growing menace of Megatron and his lackeys Soundwave and Shockwave.

At the tail end of the column of waiting soldiers Hound stood at ease. He watched Ratchet as he worked, taking in the medic's gruff temper, harsh treatment – and most telling, his optics. Hound remembered life before his district had been overrun by Decepticons, he remembered the path heading down towards the Acid Wastes. Most mechs believed that the acidic desert with its random mordant pools and hidden sink holes was a wasteland. But Hound knew better. He had seen the small, heavily armor scaled multi-legged creatures that scurried in the biting sand. Watched them harvest drops of less caustic dew near the pools and use that as their fuel source.

Those creatures had been vicious, yet their spawned younglings had been doted on. Hound recognized that same harsh protectiveness in Ratchet. The healer would do anything to save a patient, Hound was sure that extended to taking a laser blast to save another's life. Waiting patiently Hound continued to study Ratchet, noting how the medic's optics would brighten and darken with his mood. Nobody else noticed in his unit, no one else tried, but Hound recognized a wounded animal when he saw one. Ratchet carried old scars etched into his spark, yet no matter how much the mech was hurting he would always do his duty. Of this Hound was sure.

 

 *** *** ***

 

The late duty cycle slowly passed for Ratchet, each patient receiving a clean bill of health and okayed for deployment. The numbers remaining in the med ward dwindled until finally all had left leaving Ratchet alone momentarily. Only when the last of the column had vanished did he pause to wonder why there were no femmes in this detail. Most details had a majority of femmes in their ranks. The majority of the Autobot forces were composed of femmes, but lately that percentage had been dropping.

Ratchet feared that the femmes were being targeted. Despite their greater capacity to survive battle fatigue they were more susptible to direct hits from artillery fire. However, he dismissed the concern. It would not be the first time femmes had not appeared in a detail. This was just the fiftieth he had initiated into the full Autobot ranks that had no femmes amongst their members.

"You love playing the evil medic don't you?" Maincharger asked with a chuckle as he leaned against the door jam.

"It keeps them in line." Ratchet replied with an easy grin. Right now, he could pass for any bot on base, just another young spark in a dark war. Maincharger watched the transformation in continued fond exasperation as Ratchet cleaned the work table, finally able to resupply his portion of the bay after a long orn's worth of patients. He glanced around, mildly surprised that there were not more in house patients as the down cycle swiftly passed into duty cycle. Megatron's troops must have gone easy on them yesterday. It only meant that there would be more work tonight.

"You've done good, lad. With you around I'm finally able to get the lost causes the second chance they deserve. Our fatalities are fewer, and sometimes I actually believe we have a chance of surviving this war." Maincharger's optics slowly moved to Ratchet's chest, studying the hidden panel that covered the other mech's most precious sub-space compartment. The little plates Ratchet had come to them in hand with were now stored there. The white mech had never answered any more questions about the plates, his origins or how he had come to be at the Academy, but with the passing vorns those concerns had become secondary at best. Now, he was the Senior Medic of the Academy medical ward, and the reigning terror of all recruits.

"You can quit staring; its history will remain between Primus and me." Ratchet grumbled, his hand touching the hidden storage compartment. "I've come to like it here, this is my second chance. Don't ask me to dredge up a past I'm learning to go of."

"Alright, I know. No questions or you'll weld my aft to the ceiling or some such nonsense." Maincharger waved his hand lightly, "Anyways, you're going to be late for your classes. You're a fine medic, so I don't know why you need all this extra training, but if it keeps you happy and my ward on the saner side of crazy then get out of here, lad, and have some fun will you?"

Ratchet smiled down at his superior, the mini-bot was kind, kinder than he would ever be. "Lad? You do realize I'm old enough to be your creator's creator don't you?"

"You may be older than me, but you've been so sheltered from the real world you're still more a youngling than you realize." Maincharger replied calmly, "If you're going to let the past go you might want to consider that."

"Perhaps." Ratchet smiled lightly, "I think Thrasher thinks the same thing. I was assigned our most notorious patient as a roommate." Ratchet's smile turned shy.

"You mean Wheeljack?" the mini-bot laughed fondly, "I would have loved to have seen that meeting."

"Probably, _I_ didn't even know I knew some of those words." Ratchet grinned ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck, "But 'Jack's figured that I need to learn how to have some fun. He's dragging me out with some of his friends before my recharge cycle."

"Good, I want to know how it goes next orn." Maincharger sighed, the taller white medic was so naive at times, and at others so scarily wise and jaded. "Now, get out of here before Thrasher has my head." The pair smiled their farewells, Ratchet racing off to his first class of his very long orn.

Maincharger was right about him, he had spent the majority of his early years as a slave, unable to feel, unknowing of how Cybertronian society had changed from even earlier, distorted memories of distant lives.

Most full mechs had known their share of spark ache, lust and sharing by now. Ratchet had only known the devastation of loss, grief, and war. He saw mechs and femmes without ever wanting anything from them, and had even embarrassed himself repeatedly when offers of sharing had been given and he had fled, unknowing of how to respond. Maincharger said he was repressed, his roommate, Wheeljack thought he was just glitched.

Ratchet cycled his vents as he approached his lesson room, he was now given a wide berth, none brave enough to approach him, except for Wheeljack who made him go out every joor or so to get slag-faced drunk on high grade. He didn't mind, he had picked up some extremely raunchy jokes and songs that made the engineer shudder, it was a fitting revenge for all the headaches the engineer he had come to cherish as his spark sibling gave him from nearly self-destructing with his many dangerous and sometimes poorly planned experiments.

Opening the door he heard the assembled Mechanoids inside fall silent, a thrill of smug pride racing through his relays at having that kind of control over others. He stepped in and took his seat, vents cycling he exhaled slowly. For now, life was good, as far as he was concerned it could stay this way for a while longer. Just until he could find the strength to truly let go of the remorse he carried in his chest for not being able to protect his younglings, for failing his oath. Those he had failed had gone back to their origins and now with Primus, they all were one.

 


	4. Chosen Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet makes a desperate decision, Wheeljack signs on, and sparks once thought to be long lost are finally found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thetacons are the frame type from the Bay-verse movies. Steelhand is movie-verse Ironhide. The original G1 Ironhide is still himself. All the G1, War for Cybertron and similar body styles are all 'New Line' frames.

**A/N:** This is an idea I've been playing with since before the first Bay-verse movie came out. Movie-verse references are increasing.

All rights belong to the Hasbro, Takara and all respective owners and distributors. I own nothing.

* * *

Chosen Colors

'Ow,' Wheeljack pulled his mind from his work as a general ache from his peds to his back struts suddenly made itself known. Too many groons at the bench again. Jack groaned and stretched tight muscle cables.

An internal alarm sounded in his helm making him jump. He cycled his optics and pulled up his internal chronometer. 'Cybertron below, Ratchet's gonna slag me!' Jack cussed mentally as he stowed his current experiment and bolted to the quarters he shared with the medic.

" _I need your help on something, Jack."_ Jack held on tightly to that request his roommate had given him. Ratchet, in all the vorns they had lived together, had never asked for anything. The other white mech was an enigma. Wheeljack knew only three things about him.

One, Ratchet liked to yell – a lot. Two, Ratchet had a past, one he never talked about and would slag anyone who asked him about it. And, three, Ratchet was proud. The mech would openly coerce anyone to help him when a patient was at stake. Anything else and Ratchet would never admit weakness, failure or defeat.

Wheeljack rushed through the student wings past learning stations and military practice fields. The campus was lively and always busy. From the high towers the upper wings of the academy were positioned in he could look down on the sky road lined with oil bars, pleasure houses and merchants. From here, safely within Iacon he could pretend there was no war. The early attacks that had damaged the city several vorns ago had all been repaired and the Autobots had long since fallen silent after defending their city from the Decepticons.

"You're late," Ratchet's voice groused as Wheeljack opened the door to their shared quarters.

"By only point-six astroseconds!" Jack replied with a jaunty flash of the audio fins framing his face and a smart-aft grin. "So," he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "What do you need my help on?"

"Before." Ratchet waved his hand around their quarters including the Academy and being a student in that one word, "I used to be a creator bot." As Ratchet's optics dimmed with those words Jack felt his spark sink. Ratchet was keeping silent again. "All of the younglings I created, the newest ones, were murdered."

Jack gasped, sinking into a chair. He had heard the rumors, Primus, the whole campus buzzed with rumors about a creator bot arriving on Academy grounds vorns ago. All anyone knew was that he was taken into medical and never seen again.

"I was approached," Ratchet smiled gently, seeming almost like a completely different mech, "By some of my eldest younglings. They recognized my spark signature." Ratchet met Jack's optics, his own glowing like beacons radiating a light bordering on obsession. "I want to make more young ones that will be safe and sent off to other planets that know nothing of our war. I need your help in keeping this from Thrasher and Maincharger."

Wheeljack gaped, in stunned silence. "Wait, you're going to make younglings _here_?" He looked around the tiny dorm room their shared. The small room was barely large enough for their separate charging platforms, desks and shelving units. He snorted, "Are you a knock off? This place is tiny, you couldn't even make a mini-bot!"

Ratchet smirked and activated the silent hologram projector in his hand. Immediately a tiny figure was displayed in dark red wire-frame. It was a miniature mech Jack could have held in one arm. The tiny figure had delicate structures and massive optics.

"It looks like an organic youngling." Jack breathed.

"Exactly," Ratchet replied. "That's why I need your help. I can make six on my platform, I just need you to keep this quiet."

Jack vented his intakes, shuttering his optics as he shook his head. The lighted fins framing his face pulsed slowly through a myriad of colors, occasionally strobing bright, panicked red. "Fine, I will help you get your parts, and I won't say anything. _But_ , I will spend all my time in my lab. You can get yourself in deep slag with the academy deans. I can't. If I screw up one more time I'll be expelled."

"I know," Ratchet huffed, "You won't survive those trinket spawned wars any better than I would." The two white bots shared a long glance. The old war beyond the Iacon borders scared the slag out of Jack. Ratchet huffed once more. "I promise, Jack, I'll be quick. I can get the younglings assembled in two orns. Then I'll need the sparks from Vector Sigma. Their creators are submitting their requests right now."

Jack crossed his arms, "I'll help." His ear fins flickered green and yellow in anticipation. "I want to see these younglings you're going on about."

"Then what will you tell your dean?" Ratchet asked with a smirk.

"That you forced my assistance." Jack grinned impishly then shrugged, "So where do we start?"

Ratchet cackled, and pinged a parts list to his room mate and best friend. "You get to help me make custom parts." The two moved from their room anxious to beginning assembling the small frames.

* * *

The warehouse hummed with movement and chatter. Guards stood their posts as workers loaded and unloaded transports with massive energon cubes of every known grade and color. The work was fast paced, grueling and hard on systems, but the workers knew only this life and laughed as they toiled to make their burdens lighter. Life in the warehouse district was hard. Existence was short and memories lasted only as long as a few vorns – the length it took to be sparked and gutter.

None of the workers knew their lives were perilously short compared to others of their race. They only knew they had to fight for everything they had, hang onto it for all they were worth and when their time came, to return joyously to Primus' embrace. The mechs ranged from micro-drones who swept the floors constantly for energon residues to the massive Guardian outside who had protected the facility for all of known memory.

Ariel looked up from her work, smiling brightly at the brother pair who had just been signed on as loaders like her. They strode to their posts chatting brightly, Orion Pax and Dion. They both were blue, Orion darker Dion lighter. They both, like her were somewhere between mini-bot and standard sized. They both had strong sparks and sturdy frames. She liked them both.

Dion laughed more than Orion, Dion worked as a clerk in the guard station when he was not working the warehouse or recharging. Orion served as a local chronicler for the Historians. Both were smart and strong, but Ariel found gaze focused on Dion more often.

"Don't get yer hopes up on him, femmling," The guard Flareout warned, "He's headin' for the outpost warehouse near Dead End. Both of them. Too bad, really. The harbor master likes the pair, they work hard and supplement their incomes without begging for more credits for the same amount of work."

Ariel nodded, she had begun work here as soon as her final upgrades were complete. She had worked here in the warehouse ever since. She looked the brothers over once more then focused again on her work, "Too bad indeed."

* * *

Ratchet looked at the softly bustling bay he had called home for the past several dozen decavorns with a small smile. The place had changed since he had first on-lined here. Gone were the overflowing wards of the hopeless cases, replaced by fully staffed units for long term and short term care. The halls remained sterilized where once neglect and declining morale had stifled the desire to heal and protect in most mechs.

Ratchet thought back to when he had awoken here, coming out of energon septicemia induced stasis bearing the designation of 3:1:0 and slave protocols that had made him a prisoner within his own frame. The passing vorns had made him stronger, taught him to be a good medic and hopefully a better mech. He had learned to fight, to heal, he could understand engineers, chemists, scientists of all descriptions thanks to the many extra classes he had taken over the vorns. Now though, a darkness had filled his spark, tainting the silent quarters he had once shared with his long time friend and spark brother, Wheeljack.

"Is it time?" Maincharger asked softly behind Ratchet.

Looking down on the still reigning CMO of Iacon Academy Medical, Ratchet smiled at his boss. "Yes, sir, I'm finally flying the coup." Ratchet sighed with excited nerves, anxious to finally be on his way. "I've got shop space down in Rodion's Dead End district. I'll be helping those who have been ignored for too long."

Maincharger huffed sadly through his vents but smiled regardless, "I'm proud of you Ratchet. But, I don't know who's going to keep this place on its toes and those newbies in line."

"Sorry, that's above my pay grade." Ratchet smirked, "I'm just a senior surgeon."

"Get out of here!" Maincharger laughed casting his best student and long time friend from the ward. "Be safe Ratchet, the world is much darker than you know." The last was murmured softly once Ratchet had left the bay. Maincharger watched the doors shut behind his old friend and once again wondered what evil had chased Ratchet from Iacon.

Ratchet made his way from medical greeting those he knew swiftly, acting as he always had. A small part of his spark felt guilty for not saying goodbye, but no one would miss him. He was the Unmaker's own minion, the sparkless master of med bay. Those left behind would be grateful when he was gone. Ratchet exvented harshly, his once bright world had turned dark all too swiftly. One special request, and the quiet joy he had found in aiding others had died.

As his thoughts tumbled and twisted his peds kept walking, finally reaching the launch bay and his ride beyond this accursed war zone. His spark fluttered in his chassis and his plating tingled in anticipation, his dark mood vanishing to be replaced with a nearly hyperactive _need_ to laugh, cry, dance a jig or punch something. Maybe all of the above all at once. Instead he only looked around with bright optics allowing a pleased smirk to cross his face plates once he spotted the shuttle. He was going _beyond_.

Every memory file he had, as 3:1:0, as Ratchet, or from age corrupted files dating back to a golden age where Cybertron had bowed to not one, but _seven_ Primes. Those memories Ratchet thought had to have been corrupted files they were so old, but a small part of him trembled none the less. As far as his memory files were concerned, he had always known only war.

"I could come with you." A familiar voice offered gently at Ratchet's side, drawing the medic's attention to his old friend, the first one he could ever remember making. He looked to crystal blue optics filled with a bittersweet melancholy and a fierce worry. Only this one mech knew what had shattered Ratchet's world.

"And miss all the fun of becoming the first ground-based Chief Engineer of Vos Science Division? Jack, I know you, you'd be bored the first orn and blowing yourself up by mid ration." Ratchet grinned, slapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Heh, you would be correct." Wheeljack rubbed the back of his neck pensively.

"Except?" Ratchet prompted with concern.

"I – my acceptance was overturned." Jack sighed before looking to Ratch with miserable optics, "Starscream beat my entrance project, I was there when he demonstrated the null technology device. He created a beam energy tool that can freeze all motion down to the sub-atomic level within a living frame without terminating the subject! He nulled a mech mid glitch and froze the very electrons in their place and allowed for a unanimous diagnosis by a panel of doctors, engineers and circuit specialist from across the unaffected region. It was amazing."

Ratchet huffed a chuckle as Jack enthused over the project that beat his portable energon box. Jack's had been just as amazing to Ratchet, maybe even more so. Instead of the Ancient's 'Star Eater' technology that required the harvesting of entire stars, this box used extant stellar and deep space radiation penetrating their thin atmosphere to generate energon. One box could create enough mid grade to fuel a platoon in the field indefinitely.

"I also wanted to make sure you wanted to do this, to leave – without me." Those optics that had seen him at his worst and laughed both with and at him at his best shattered Ratchet's resolve to go this alone. Despite waking alone on a berth with only pre-programmed protocols in place, Ratchet had rarely been alone since that time. To bury yet another failure to those he served with the loss of his younglings a lifetime ago, and reject the unwavering friendship Wheeljack offered was no long an option.

"Fine!" Ratchet threw up his hands dramatically; overplaying his exasperation and making all the flight deck crews keep a wary optic on the notorious medic. "You can come with me, but" Ratchet waggled his finger in Wheeljack's face plates, "The _first_ time you blow yourself, part of my clinic or a patient up, you _will_ be shipped to Dodecahex in pieces, _understood_?"

Wheeljack's optics crinkled at the corners belying the mirth he kept from his vocals, "Perfectly, oh dreaded one. I shudder at your ego's greatness, and the savagery of your wrench – _ouch_!"

The medic snorted his amusement as he shook his aching hand, and shoved his friend towards the shuttle anxious to finally be free of the aching memories and the constant threat of war.

* * *

The lower levels of Iacon, lost in darkness of eternal night, was little more than a vague, disturbing panorama of shadows and patches of gray. Lost in the dark shadows where no lights remained a small hatch hissed open, and released the sheltered cargo it had held in stasis for uncounted passing vorns. Little figures, small and scared looked around the place they had once called home and trembled at the foreign shadows that met them. Bright optics blazed in the darkness lighting each others' features as they looked to one another, afraid.

What had been yesterday to them had been several decavorns to the city. One figure, the smallest, moved to a familiar pillar he remembered from _before_ and toddled to the place he and last seen _Him_. Only no one was there. He warbled in distress, several other coming closer, each offering their shelter and support. Another pointed and cried softly. This and been their room. The long row of little beds were still there, but they were dirty.

_He_ was nowhere to be found. They looked to the table they had last seen the mech who had been their maker and saw only dust. They were alone. The nine little figures huddled together, all shuddering with fear. In this place of darkness there was no one to take care of them. Hunt, the silent one who watched everything looked off into the darkness and pointed to a distant blaze of light.

Beside him Stalk, his twin, snorted and shook his helm, pointing in the other direction. Beside Stalk Shifter shifted on his peds and stepped closer, cowering behind Stalk for protection. Twitch and Target, two little mechlings standing opposite of Hunt, cuddled close together, neither wanting to go in either direction. Boom stood close to Bounce, their smallest member, and Steam watching with wide optics as Hunt and Stalk warbled and screeched as they fought for which way to go.

Suddenly, Target whistled shrilly, her optics slitted as she warbled and beeped her anger. She shoved Hunt and Stalk apart in their different direction and grabbed Twitch, pulling him after her as she vanished into the darkness. Behind them the others looked at each other and shrugged. They went their own directions. Hunt remained, optics wide and scared. He looked everywhere, but Bounce had vanished.

The last of the long lost Precious Sparks slipped away into the all consuming darkness and vanished into the silence of the eternal night.

* * *

"I said, sit the _frag_ down." Ratchet snarled over his reluctant patient. Optics glowing dangerously he snarled at the much taller mech until the other finally gave in and sat gingerly on the raised med berth with an agonized groan and a low chuckle.

"Decepticon mechanics are far less intimidating." Ratchet's patient complemented with pained amusement.

"Then go to one of them and free a berth for the next patient." Ratchet snarled in return, grabbing a medical scanner in one hand, a wrench in the other.

"But I came here for you." The others dark face plates split into a disturbing leering grin.

Ratchet looked up with slow menace as he met the others optics, scowling into amused crimson with his own threatening cobalt. "For me?" He asked flatly, but the warning fell on ignorant audios and the patient continued, smiling all the wider.

"My employer is willing to pay handsomely for your skills, medic, and I like my credits." The mech smiled malevolently.

"Who are you?" Ratchet asked, backing up against the wall behind him and for once feeling tapped in his own clinic. His optics scanned the small examination room, desperately wishing that his bright idea of making his own clinic out here in the shadow of Dead End had included a few guards.

"Downdraft," the black, spiked armored mech replied, his red optics glittering with a terrifying mix of greed and calm planning. "It seems you have heard of me."

Ratchet suppressed a shudder, refusing to be afraid of his own patient in his first clinic free of Iacon and the Academy. He had served for too long in the academy med bay, slowly climbing the ranks, saving a few lives but he was never there when it mattered and could never save enough. Here, below the massive cliffs that sheltered the neutral industrial city of Rodion from the Acid Wastes and its endless, howling, caustic winds Ratchet had made his new home. His first as a free mech, safe from the greed and control of others – or so he thought until his first patient of the early hours of the orn.

"No one owns me, no one can buy me and _no one_ threatens me in _My Med Bay!_ " Without thinking Ratchet flung himself at the damaged mech, lightning reflexes jamming a sedative needle deep into the other's lines and pumping the bounty hunter full of sedatives.

"Shunt! Rapture! Get in here!" Turning from the unconscious patient Ratchet waited for his only two assistants to appear. When they did he merely flung his hand towards the black mech then towards the door. "Get this slime out of here."

"Yes boss!" The pair chorused and manhandled the mech out of the bay. Ratchet couldn't care less what the pair did with the slagger, just so long as he didn't come back. "You're popular boss, that's the fifth one this dren!" Rapture called over his shoulder as he helped drag out the unconscious would-be kidnapper. Ratchet vented and reminded himself that out here on the edge of the wastes mechs often didn't even live one vorn. He was used to counting time in orns and vorns, ignoring the ten-orn joor and the ten-joor dren. Out here though, the joor seemed to equate with a vorn an the dren to a decavorn. It sure felt like a decavorn in service in his clinic on the aft end of Cybertron.

"Don't remind me." Ratchet groused, sucking in a deep intake. "Two assassination attempts, three attempted kidnappings, four thefts, two beatings and one abandoned sparkling." Ratchet hissed and thought of the youngling currently learning the ropes in the main ward of his clinic. "And I haven't even been open a full vorn." Ratchet shook his head and headed to check on the youngster. "Good orn, Huffer."

The mini-bot youngster looked up and smiled with a rare patience, one Ratchet had never had. "Morning Boss." Ratchet huffed a small smile, this small kernel of happiness he held would not last, but he would cling to it for as long as he could.

"I hear you're popular." Wheeljack spoke from behind Ratchet making the medic yelp in surprise.

"Made some noise!" Ratchet barked, making Huffer giggle.

"Sorry." Wheeljack flashed his audio fins weakly at Ratchet, his optics flitting down to glance at the young Huffer only for the youngling to duck his helm and hide his optics uncomfortably.

"Now what?" Ratchet demanded, his spark sank there was always something worse to come.

"My applications remained in the system when we left," Wheeljack started, hunching his helm into his shoulders as he spoke, "I have been approached by the Autobots." He gulped and shrunk further into his armor, "They have asked me to join their science team."

"Wheeljack," Ratchet warned, "If you make me choose between aiding those warmongers or my clinic you already know my answer."

"They promised Huffer full medical training, no cost." Wheeljack broke in, swallowing tightly as Ratchet suddenly seemed to loom over him. The medic's silent rage made his presence expand like a guardian standing over a micro-drone.

"How do they know about Huffer?" The words came out icy calm and steady. Wheeljack could only tremble at his friend's restrained fury.

"They came here!" Huffer exclaimed excitedly, his optics bright and hyper. "I'm going to get full training and earn my crosses and I'll become just as good as you Ratchet."

"I see." Ratchet snarled at Jack, optics bright and angry, "Then get." He turned on his ped and stalked away slamming his office door behind him.

"Well, that went better than I hoped." Jack sighed wearily, "And worse than I feared. Come on kiddo, time to get you some learning." Together Wheeljack and Huffer left the clinic and Ratchet behind. With each step towards the waiting, hidden Autobot vessel, Jack kept hoping that Ratchet would at least comm his good-bye.

* * *

Ariel laughed brightly as she helped unload the latest transport. She had been here a whole dren, it was longer than she thought she would live at her old warehouse. Dion laughed beside her, optics merry as he worked.

"It wasn't that funny." Orion complained and once more rubbed the subtle dent in his helm.

"You're right, it wasn't." Dion nodded sagely, "It was hysterical."

"Dion!" Orion whined, sulking petulantly as he hefted the next massive transport cube of energon to load on the air barge.

"Don't pout, besides who would have thought _a medic_ would be so grumpy." Ariel giggled and turned for another cube. Despite them lifting cubes bigger than they were none of them complained about the work. Besides, anytime they got hurt they could just go down the street and visit their favorite medic, Ratchet.

"I like him." Dion admitted, "I wish our harbor master was more like him. I'll take stern and demanding over cruel and demanding."

Orion grinned, "Torque isn't so bad. He just works too much."

"Ratchet works too much, Torque doesn't do anything." Ariel admitted as their shift ended with a wailing siren.

The three parted, each going to different duties off-shift. Orion looked behind him, watching Ariel go arm lace with Dion's as they trudged to the nearby Fort Yuss. Decepticon soldiers ran the outpost, they were older, gruff and full of stories. Dion and Ariel enjoyed their work as clerk and maintenance bots respectively. Orion finally turned after watching them vanish and headed in a different direction.

"If you've come back because of that dent you can forget it! You were told to sit down and shut up. You refused." The medic kept his optics on his current project, his back to a wall. Too many attempts on his clinic and his life had taught him to keep himself ready for attacks from anyone, especially a patient.

Orion smiled slightly, "Sorry Ratchet, but I'm not here about that."

Ratchet glanced up from his work looking the younger mech over intensely, "Hm, spark issues?"

Orion nodded slightly, "I think Dion likes Ariel." He looked to Ratchet miserably, continuing at the other's silent nod, "I don't want to fight over her."

Ratchet snorted, "Have you asked her?" He snorted at Orion's blank expression, "Sparklet, that femme has hung off _my_ arm for giggles. If she's just hanging onto Dion tell her how you feel. The worst she could do is turn you down. Besides, if she likes you both you cold form a split share triad."

Orion blinked, vents stuttering, "t-t-triad?"

Ratchet barked a laugh, "Yes, two mechs can share a lover even if they don't share each other."

"Ratchet!" Orion screwed his face up in disgust, "Dion is _my brother_."

"So?" Ratchet shrugged, "You came from the same assembly line. You recognize each other as siblings and registered as a family unit. Mechs have bonded with stronger familial connections."

"I am not having this conversation! I just need to know; What I should do about Ariel?" Orion pleaded desperate to change the subject.

Ratchet finally cackled and relented. "Youngling, I don't know. Matters of the spark are not my specialty. I'm a medic not a priest. I can only say talk to her. Tell her you care, just don't try to be someone you're not. Ariel is a good mech, she's smart and proud. She will listen to you." He watched the younger mech somberly as he spoke, for once almost wishing he had taken up some the many offers for sharing. Then at least he would have an idea of what he was talking about.

"Thanks Ratchet." Orion finally smiled, "By the way, can we really live for _vorns_?"

"Yes, lad. I've been around for many decavorns." Ratchet admitted with a sad smile, his thoughts trailing down dark paths to lost younglings.

"Then, I would like to call you my friend." Orion spoke as he held out in offering. Ratchet smirked, and clasped the youngster's hand, engulfing the smaller mech's hand in his own.

Ratchet smiled sadly, "Sometimes, Orion, living long is a greater curse than living too short a time. When the vorns pile up behind you, all you can see are your mistakes."

Orion nodded, he could see that, but more he could see himself and Ariel aging together. He smiled and left determined that tomorrow he would be the one with Ariel on his arm.

* * *

Bounce warbled into the silent darkness. Large optics stared out at the world filled with fear. The little mechling stepped slowly, little peds wobbly and uncertain. The night was dark, and the others had vanished. He had been watching something scrabble among the rubble, he wanted to show Hunt and Stalk. They always enjoyed tracking down things that moved. Hunt would watch and know where it would go next. Stalk would follow behind the running thing and grab it before anyone knew he was there.

Now, he was alone and scared. Bounce warbled and called, expecting the kind blue optics of _Creator_ to find him. He could feel creator's spark in his chest, feel strange feelings that were not his own from the ever present sensation of not being alone.

He kept moving, and listened. _There._ He heard movement in the distance. Soft voices filtered in the night. He ran to the sounds, hoping to reach Creator and go home.

"Chief?" A voice hissed in the darkness beside Bounce, making him start and freeze where he stood.

"What is it?" Another voice asked and optics suddenly appeared before Bounce making squeal in fright.

"Don't scare it!" A large hand scooped Bounce up to its chest, "Hey there, calm down. Name's Punch."

"Punuchm?" The little mech warbled, his vocal processors hitching and starting as he recovered from his fright.

"Close enough." The yellow mech chuckled, "And what will I call you?"

"Jukbzu?" The little mech reached up a tiny hand grabbing at the face plate covering Punch's mouth.

"That's a mighty big mouthful, little one, how 'bout just Jazz?"

Bounce giggled and reached up both hands, not understanding the strange words the mech used but liking the magic voice that appeared from nowhere.

"Good, Jazz it is." Punch held the swiftly tiring little mechling to his chest and turned with a smile. "Well, our mission was a wash, but I can't call it a complete waste." He led his troops home, back to their hidden base where they would wait for their next orders and hope for better intel.

* * *

Sentinel strode through the Acid Wastes, long cloak of crystal weave canvas tailed behind him, fluttering in the gusting winds. He watched his contact approach, waiting to meet this hope to save Cybertron from the foolish destruction of the wars. Hard optics, jaded from the burden of the Matrix stared through he screaming dust storm as he trudged. In the distance, near the outskirts of Dead End another figure, similarly cloaked, stalked through the raging storm to meet him.

"There was a time, when you had been correct. The Senate was abusing their stations, and killing everyone below them with their greed. They fled long ago. This war must stop." Sentinel ground out, his towering frame equal to that of his opposite.

"This was never about the Senate, Prime." The other spoke condescendingly, "We once were gods of the universe! Now we simper on our world and let it die, all for leaders who refuse to utilize resources off planet. I will make us great, and we will once more conquer the stars!"

Sentinel shook his head, "Megatron, I only wish to save Cybertron. Our planet is dying, we might survive in the stars on other worlds, but we will no longer be of Cybertron."

Megatron's lips lifted in a smirk, "Prove your intentions to me." He pointed towards Dead End, "destroy the warehouse."

Sentinel sighed, "So much wasted life. Megatron, I must know you will keep your word – nothing you or any of your Decepticons do will cause harm to our world."

"I need Cybertron." Megatron strode from Sentinel, leading the way to the distant town of Rodion. He smiled, a sinister grin that deranged his features. He knew Sentinel would follow. Prime was so focused on their planet that he overlooked the ethics of his own actions. Sentinel would destroy Cybertron with his single minded devotion to its survival and would ensure the whole of their world joined the Decepticons against the Autobot cause.

* * *

Laser blasts screamed through the air, making the thin atmosphere shimmer with their heat. Ariel cowered within the warehouse hidden slightly under Orion and Dion. Outside a battle raged, bots much larger than them fought for the warehouse. Orion yanked Dion down further, covering his brother and his beloved with his frame.

He looked out the doors, watching as the slate gray behemoth Megatron stepped into view.

"Sentinel Prime," His words oozed from his vocal processors like line sludge clogging healthy systems. "We can end this. Look around you, death is all your actions can bring. Join me, side with my Decepticons and all mechanoids will be given their rightful rations."

The warrior's words sounded honest, Orion wanted Sentinel to stop the violence, and accept the offer of a truce. He hoped to see the end of this violence that had descended upon this outpost of Dead End.

"Then leave," Sentinel countered. "You have control of the entire forth sector line. Leave this warehouse and its contents to those of Dead End. There is little left here and those remaining have nothing of their own." The voice filled with reserved wisdom sounded across the field and the red behemoth, Sentinel Prime stepped into view. "Leave and I will forswear all violence against your forces."

"Good." Megatron grinned widely with a purr and turned, only for a laser blast to fly over his shoulder and slam into Sentinel Prime knocking the other to the ground with a cry of pain.

"Autobots attack!" a line of bots led by a red mech half Prime's size flooded the area in front of the warehouse chasing Megatron's forces away. The battle was fierce and Orion could only watch in horror as Sentinel Prime's troops fought to chase away Megatron's soldiers while Megatron's forces fought to kill.

"We have to do something." Orion murmured to Ariel and Dion, taking in their scared optics with a reassuring smile. "Energon explodes."

Ariel nodded decisively, "The crane still works. Drop the two cubes on the hook onto Megaton and the red troops can do the rest."

"I'll do it," Dion volunteered, "But I'll need a distraction."

Orion and Ariel grinned. "We got it covered." They collected small cubes of energon and flares. Orion threw the cubes at the nearest mechs while Ariel fired flare shots at them making the energon explode and sear into their plating. The mini munitions served to distract the nearest Decepticons, pulling their attention in different directions and leaving them open to the red troops' attack..

Dion climbed into the crane and dropped its load over Megatron, grinning hugely as a lucky shot from the red mech behind Sentinel made the massive load explode with concussive force. Dion leapt from the crane and ran to his brother. Together they fled to the back of the warehouse and the hidden subterranean path there that led to the far side of Dead End and Ratchet's clinic.

Behind them the yelling increased and they ran faster reaching the rear of the warehouse and the promise of freedom. Orion stooped to wrench the secret door open just as a shadow fell over them. The world plunged into darkness with screams following them into oblivion.

* * *

Hunt, Boom and Shifter stood side by side on the sea of hardened rubble. They were lost. Shifter shifted from ped to ped his voice warbling and beeping in various tones as if arguing with himself. Boom glared at the chatty little bot, his own little fists tensing as if wanting to pummel Shifter into silence. Hunt remained silent, large optics watching and waiting until he saw movement in the distance.

Instantly Hunt launched off the debris, chasing after the distant dot of motion. Behind him the others followed after. They ran, and the dot vanished but Hunt continued to run. He did not know what else to do, so he chased the spec of motion and searched the rubble around him for someone, anyone, _Creator!_

"Starscream!" A voice filled the skies echoing in the distance. Hunt ran faster, his small legs pounded the metal splinters that remained of the land and chased the massive voice that vibrated his frame.

"That one is of Vos!" A shadow crossed their path and the three mechlings hid in crevasses scarring the surface. They peaked out, up at massive shadows with burning red optics that stomped towards them, making the land shudder.

"Come here," One with massive shoulders ordered gently, his voice high and warbling. It was their code!

Two of the mechlings scrambled out of their hiding spots to cling to the warbler's peds. A large taloned hand reached down, scooping them up into his arm. "Welcome, little ones, to the Decepticons."

"What did you find?" A second shadow with big shoulders approached.

"Thundercraker, meet Lord Megatron's new recruits." Starscream turned to his subordinate with a broad, plotting smirk.

"Recruits?" The blue mech leaned forward staring at the little frames in his commander's hands. "They look like micro-drones."

"Exactly." Starscream purred and launched into the air carrying the three littles in his cockpit. "I will train them, and they will serve me. Then I will be second-in-command instead of that worthless Shockwave." Starscream cackled and rocketed into the upper atmosphere to vanish into the growing acid storm building over the wasteland.

Once the two fliers vanished into the sky Hunt slipped through the rubble, wide optics watching everything all around. He looked in the distance, back to where he felt Stalk and turned in the opposite direction. Stalk had not found Creator. Stalk was lost and alone, like Hunt. Boom and Shifter were gone. Hunt looked into the distance and spotted lights. A target in place Hunt chased the distant lights hoping to find Creator when he got there.

* * *

Rodion had once been a bustling center, once it had boasted mines, smelters, crafters and traders all bustling in and out of the many warehouse sectors that dotted its border. Mechs came for the wares, the supplies, and for a good couple decavorns, for the free clinic Ratchet ruled over with an iron fist and a generous will. Here in Dead End, everything was gone. Only the screaming winds of the Acid Wastes and the high cliffs separating Dead End from that treacherous expanse remained.

Helm bowed Ratchet looked over the rubble of what had once been and swallowed an agonized keen of loss and despair. It was gone. Rodion was now a wasteland populated by the wraiths of mechs who killed the living and scavenged from the dead for the dregs of energon left in this forsaken district. The rubble that had once been his prized clinic was all that remained of his happiest memories.

Ratchet placed a remorseful hand on top of an arm sticking from the rubble. Grey and lifeless there was no saving any left behind. Ratchet said his silent, final farewells and began the long, lonely trek back towards the distant sanctuary of Iacon. As Ratchet's sure steps took him out of his once beloved home and back to the city his new life had started in. Only two, tiny glimmers of hope kept him from shutting down in the wastes and letting the wraiths claim his residues: The hope that somewhere out in the madness of their world his spark-brother Wheeljack and his adopted youngling, Huffer were safe.

As he walked, conserving energon by staying in his root mode he thought back over the few decavorns he had called the little clinic home. He had taken in Huffer with Wheeljack, watched the pair troop off together to Iacon and the hopes of ending the escalating war. He had met three incorrigible mechs from the warehouse district of Rodion. Dion and Orion Pax had been so innocent and hopeful. While Orion's sweet-spark, Ariel, had been precocious and unstoppable.

Ratchet smiled. He missed those days, missed the trio coming down to him to speak of their hopes and their incessant check-ups in the hope that they would live to see their first decavorn. They would have reached it this orn, but they were gone. No one would celebrate the warehouse workers who had managed to outlive everyone of their old warehouse. He had already scoured the wreckage of the city, his young trio were gone. He had some hope that they escaped, but not much. Too many dark things hand happened and the Unmaker kept upping his toll.

"I was born from the Pits." Ratchet sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face wearily. So much destruction, so much death. Despite his best intentions he had never made a difference, was never there when it really mattered. He moved down the winding path through the collected rocky sediment from generations of meteorites landing in the region. The celestial travelers were drawn to the Acid Wastes for reasons no one understood. Stacked and crushed together the alien rocks had formed massive cliffs and snaking pathways threading through the landscape.

"This area is in quarantine for random EM sprites." A mech covered in anti-magnetic shielding appeared from around the curved bend. "You must leave immediately."

Ratchet scoffed a harsh, jaded laugh, "Then get out of my way. Everything behind me was destroyed." The medic shifted around the guard mech, ignoring the startled expression on the mech's face.

"Wait, are you _Ratchet_?" The mech reached out, hand stopping a scant finger's breadth from the medic's tense shoulder.

Turning warily, slowly scrutinizing the much taller mech, Ratchet faced the other. "And what if I am?"

"Sir, I was ordered by Sentinel Prime to find you." The mech held out his hand in greeting, "I'm Impactor."

"Why the slag would a Prime send for me?" Ratchet demanded darkly. He had been the bane of the recruits, and the Prime had never ventured to Iacon Academy while he had been there. Ratchet looked the other over with a glare, noting a slight tremor in the steely fingers and recognized the frame belatedly.

"You graduated eight decavorns ago, you kept sticking your plasma harpoon launcher into exposed wiring to get out of work detail." Ratchet nodded as he remembered, and paused as Impactor grinned sheepishly.

"Yeah, I was still young and stupid back then – at least until you came. One visit from you and I never shirked again!" Impactor chuckled. "We wondered what had happened to you. One orn you were traumatizing the recruits, the next you were gone like a pit hound in a blessing wind. Dozens of batches of recruits were on their best behavior to just not summon you back from the Pits.

Ratchet huffed a dry unamused chuckle, "Too late."

* * *

Twitch, Target, Slip and Steam screeched as they ran into each other. The four looked at each other first with fear, then joy. They had lost each other. Now, they were no longer alone. The four giggled and jigged, bouncing as they got over being together again. Target pulled Twitch and Slip who grabbed Steam. The four toddled together through the darkness. They were together, but Target worried. She could not find Bounce or the others.

The little group padded through the jagged rubble, far from the remains of their home. Behind them Twitch began to pull away, trying not to follow the path Target was taking them on. Twitch began to fuss, little voice squealing and clicking in the darkness. Finally fed up, Target turned on the squalling Twitch, optics slitting as she moved to shut up the smaller mechling – and fell.

The others shrieked as she vanished.

_Thud._ "What the slag?" Target looked up from where she had landed, optics wide and scared. She was alone. A large helm appeared over the edge of the soft thing she landed on, hard blue optics widened as they saw her. "Well, Ah'll be. Guess Prahm ain't the only lucky one 'round here."

Twitch smiled, liking the other's voice. She moved to the big face and squealed when a hand grabbed her, taking her down to a big red chest. "Easy there, Ah won't hurt ya."

He looked down at the little mechling, then cycled his optics. "Ah found mahself a little femme. Name's Ironhide." Target looked up at the big mech and smiled, safe for the first time since they fell asleep in the hiding spot they were told never to go to. She settled, falling into recharge and forgot the others she had lost when she fell into the darkness.

Ironhide looked back over his shoulders to the convoy he escorted under duress. Sentinel had forced him to guard the three stasis-bound, heavily damaged youngsters from the warehouse. He glared at the frames, feeling like a spare wheel on a unicycle. Prime had staged that battle. Why? Ironhide shook his helm and held the little one closer. His questions would wait for another orn.

* * *

Wheeljack felt his vocal processors drawing current, but couldn't be bothered to notice what he was saying. He was torn with indecision, but with too many projects and not enough time he could only keep on with his work. Ratchet was back. The clinic was gone, everyone else Ratchet had trained and worked with had terminated. Jack should have been happy. He knew he should have cackled with glee and run to greet his brother.

"How times have changed." Wheeljack started at hearing his own voice. Yet, he could only nod in agreement. He turned back to his current project, finaggling tricky electronics and nano-crystalline circuits into becoming a shield amplifier. So far he was failing miserably.

" _'Jack!" Ratchet, young and so hopeful, ran up to him, "I need your help with a project."_

_Jack had never seen his roommate so excited before, had never noticed how_ young _he really was. "Sure," Trust. Wheeljack had complete faith in Ratchet and his judgement, perhaps too much faith for a resparked mech with memory packets still burning brightly within his spark. "What can I do to help?"_

_Ratchet had always been so level helmed, tenacious and practical that Jack had put his blind faith in the medic. "I need parts._ These. _"_

_As Jack read over the list of parts, equipment and materials, his lines began prickling with unease. The parts were standard requirements for building a new frame, the dimensions, however, were not._

That had been the last time things had been normal. So much time had passed and neither he nor Ratchet could forgive themselves – or each other.

_It was over. The small frame shuddered and terminated on its creation bed. Ratchet bore the look of a dying mech, the small family unit behind him had been blank – shocked numb and silent. Wheeljack turned in a flurry of motion and sought what went wrong. Yet, no matter how hard he looked, no matter what variables he changed,_ he could not find a way that the youngling could have survived. _It was putting him in a processor loop._

" _I'm sorry," Ratchet had finally breathed, unaware that the mechs he had created the youngling for had left groons ago. "I'm so sorry." His hand raised, trembling as he traced over the delicate frame and harvested a tiny little plate from the back of its leg containing his creator mark._

" _It shouldn't have happened this way." Jack listened absently as he fretted over the details. Suddenly he found something irregular in the spark monitor. "Ratch, the spark, it never guttered."_

" _I know." Ratchet sighed, "A long time ago, it was called Primus' Will. The spark just vanishes as if it never was. This youngling was not meant to be sparked."_

" _No, Ratch, that's not it. Someone tampered with the spark, the youngling was murdered."_

Jack sighed and set down his tools, anxious to find his spark brother and make amends. He moved from his workstation and raced to the duty officer, hoping to find where Ratchet had stationed.

"Sorry Jack, the medic refused to join. He just volunteered for platoon medic position. He's signed on for six vorns."

Jack swallowed and looked to the distant trail of dust from the last convoy heading out. He had just missed his brother. Once more he had let Ratchet face the darkness alone when he should have been there for him. He hung his helm and sighed. Hopefully Ratchet would make it back alive, if not they would see each other when all were one.

* * *

Stalk cried, looking for his brother, the others, Creator - anyone. He was alone. Standing, a tiny frame in a massive plane, Stalk could only see darkness in all directions. He looked around, then huffed, he smelled energon. With bright optics glowing in hunger he toddled to the source of the smell. He found it, out in the plane. A large hill had opened on its side. There was a hollow. Stalk crawled in, curled up to the strange dispenser and drank from the slowly dripping port. Hunger sated, Stalk curled against a dimly warm pillar in the cave and slept hidden from the world.

Beyond the hill the stars wheeled across the sky. No one was around to see the hill Stalk had claimed. No one was there to watch in horror as the tiny sparkling drank the semi-processed energon of a fallen convoy-class Autobot slowly graying on the field. No one was there.

When the energon ran out Stalk slipped from his shelter, and moved on. Still innocent of what his home had been he only knew to move on, and seek out the next hill. It was all he could do.


	5. Through the Loom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When dreams die, the only option is to move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thetacons are the frame type from the Bay-verse movies. Steelhand is movie-verse Ironhide. The original G1 Ironhide is still himself. All the G1, War for Cybertron and similar body styles are all 'New Line' frames.

“Doc!” Afterburn rumbled in a stern whisper, “Get your aft down and make yourself small!” Ratchet slid backwards as silently as his non-military frame would allow. As he moved another voice came from behind, “You’re going to get us all killed unless you get fragging down and eat some glim, sir.” Glim, referring to the glimmering dust of dried up energon spilled from countless mechs.

Ratchet tried not to flinch at the ‘sir’, he was a medic, not an officer, but with the medical training and years of medical work came a rank – Major – to the unit led by Lieutenant Afterburn. The unit had been glad enough to take him on, help him understand the seemingly senseless military routine of physically saluting a superior officer when a data ping to his line took less time and kept your hands on your patients and your weapon.

Ratchet remembered, as he hunkered with the twenty much younger ‘bots who did not suffer the pangs of stiff joints due to age, that he had been proud of having a level mu combat rating when he had told the recruiting officer that he could fight. Out here, he had learned the hard way, he was eight levels below the minimum combat-readiness requirement, and fighting was not the same as combat. The rifle in his hand was heavy, clunky compared to the lightweight medical tools he was used to carrying.

As his thoughts spun he shifted back to the lieutenant’s approved location and once more took up the long watch for the enemy signatures that had off-lined their transport drone. Ratchet was grateful the drone had been a simple machine, basic programming, no cortex, and no spark. It was just a hunk of animate metal. It was the only saving grace this position had afforded him. Otherwise this had been a run in the pits, and he was only on his second orn in.

“ _Major, your duty is simple, just go with your unit, and evac any mechs needing_ _medical_ _attention.” General Surge, had moved from medicine to military in a daring move after a patient from the front forced him into stasis lock and rebuild. When your frame gets scrapped, but you’re still on-line it is a hellish limbo of dark silence. No outside connections, the connections made without streaming through a frame would merge into the cortex frame, preventing correct neural connections from cortex to extremity. It was something that would only leave a mech as an immobile processor with vocal functions – and it usually led to insanity._

Simple. That flew with the promise of safety the moment he left a medic’s mockery of boot camp. They had been shot at, two of their numbers had been severely wounded – and Ratchet was forbidden to heal them in the field. Part of him was grateful. It meant he could ensure they continued to function until their return to the nearest mobile hospital tent. There they received damage control and a straight flight or sub-level transport to the nearest real hospital.

Ratchet hated being on the front lines. He could barely fight, knew only enough to keep himself from killing his unit and was never allowed the time to work with a patient. He missed his clinic – missed being in control and knowing where he stood within the world. Out here, he was just a liability with benefits.

Around him his unit began to tense, their optics brightening with the anticipatory fear of facing the silent enemy they could barely hear surrounding them. Ratchet hunkered down closer to the ground, praying for a miracle, hoping that this would end well. Instantly laser strikes landed all around him, his unit forced to hunker lower before they could return fire. Only, their opportunity never came. As suddenly as the Decepticon fire had begun so had the return fire of surrounding Autobot troops that forced the silent enemy to retreat. It was a quick route with a massive mech bringing the rear to replace their lost transport. With a grateful thanks to Primus Ratchet boarded the mech with the others, and hoped this would not become the norm out here.

 

*** *** ***

 

Sentinel stood looking over the vast destruction that had once been the notorious Dead End District. Here metal was melted and twisted, the very framework of the city turned into a solidified slag enmeshed with the strange rocks seeming from another world. He sighed in reminiscence; this was the neighborhood he had recruited Orion from.

He could still remember the energon warehouse the humble bot, his irrepressible spark-mate and his brother had worked at, could see the broken remains of the dock they had called home. It seemed impossible to think that in so little time a humble worker had become a soldier and his once home had become a wasteland. The memories of happier times when Megatron was a distant rumor and the Decepticons were the fading remnants of Cybertron's once proud military shifted through Sentinel's helm and vanished. Those long lost good times were gone, and only chaos would reign from now on.

Sentinel knew he had more important things to do than reminisce, lost in melancholy thoughts; but today he had felt drawn to this sector. He had learned to never question the strange urges that filled him when they originated from the Matrix as this one had. It was something he had been forced to learn shortly after being chosen to bear it. A few thousand vorns ago he had been a senate leader and a scientist before the Matrix had called him upon. Somehow it felt much longer, the burden of being the bearer dragging time and lengthening his tenure.

Suddenly, across the landscape of this once beloved home, a tiny figure moved amongst the rubble. Focusing his optics to close in on the miniature figure, he stilled, processor racing as he watched the distant shape stumble and stagger. He remotely called up and scanned every news feed, data stream and electronic whisper that he could find for any clue as to what the tiny figure before him could be. Finally, he found a single blurb, from several decavorns ago. He was seeing one of the last remaining creations of the Iacon Youngling Center. The Center had once specialized in designing and building custom frames built to fulfill exclusive needs, and the most recent and final line to be created before the center’s destruction was the Precious Sparks line, a series of younglings built to resemble Cybertronian versions of the offspring of organic worlds. It was assumed that all had been destroyed in the attack, but apparently some had been hidden in stasis to survive for so long unchanged.

These little mechs were immature, naive and required constant care and doting as they matured and grew over the course of their ‘juvenile stage’. And, the rumors claimed they had been wiped out with the destruction of the center.

‘What sick slag-headed monster could have decided to build such fragile creatures during a war?’ Sentinel twitched his wrist in annoyance and approached the tiny youngling. Hearing the loud approach of the massive bot, the little one stilled. Bright shimmering blue optic crystals looked up at the towering form of Sentinel. The optics, tiny in comparison to any mech’s, were huge within the miniature face.

With a start Sentinel realized what could possess a desperate processor to create something so tiny and delicate, one look at those helpless optics, the bright innocence radiating from the tiny frame and he knew from the depths of his spark that he would do anything to protect this little mech. And realized only too late how fast the tiny form could be as the bright optics filled with terror and the little one fled, its small feet finding nimble purchase on even the most uneven and broken rubble.

With a curse Sentinel gave chase, his massive feet creating dents and miniature craters within the rubble as the loose spattering of surface fragments shifted to accommodate his weight. The youngling was still retreating, tiny arms pumping almost too rapidly to follow with normal optics. Sentinel felt the energon in his lines grow heavy and cycled his vents in frustration. He could not catch up to the youngling and, with a swift prayer to Primus he began firing off stun rounds at the miniature mech until one finally struck the fleeing figure in the back. As the figure collapsed the large golden hued mech slowed and strode more sedately until he stood over the still figure. Looking down at the small protoform and shaking his head despairingly at the sad state the youngling was in Sentinel knelt and scooped the unconscious youngling into his arms.

Protoforms had no armor, they were in their original forms and none were ever seen outside of their camouflage for very long. It was unknown when the habit of camouflaging themselves as vehicles and weaponry had begun, but it had become their nature to change their appearances into that of other objects that fit their core programming to blend in with alien worlds and survive even on their own planet.

The immature Cybertronian fit easily into his hand. It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. Mechs ranged in size from the drones which were typically the smallest of their race that were little bigger than dust motes, to their Guardians who towered over their cities. This youngling, however, was not even half the size of a mini-bot. The tiny protoform was scuffed, its lines and cables worn. Apparently, it had been alone out on the sad remains of this battlefield for far too long.

With a resigned sigh Sentinel returned to the base, smirking to himself that old Ironhide would be probably blowing a gasket about now at his prolonged absence from the base. The mech smiled down on the little one in his hand. As Prime his position was precarious. He had never wanted the Matrix, or leadership. He had been working towards a breakthrough to end the war once and for all. Now, his projects were on hold and their greatest chance of saving their world locked in storage.

Sentinel huffed he hated his position. He had been a politician, not a military leader. He had known nothing about troop deployment, logistics or strategies when the Matrix had chosen him. His life had been filled with dialogue, debate and speaking to other likeminded mechs. Leading grunts with little understanding of the war they fought had only bogged his processors down and weighed heavily upon his spark. Too often it still did despite the passing vorns.

Soon enough, as predicted, Ironhide’s red form came into view flanked by Kup and Reccus. Sentinel sighed, allowing Reccus to fuss over him and then his new find before allowing Kup and Ironhide to escort him back to base, the youngling in the patient transport compartment in the back of Reccus’s alt form. The trip back to the base was short, and silent, filled with the tense disgruntled scans from his officers.

“Yer not expendable you know.” Ironhide finally growled as his last scan tickled over the surface of Sentinel’s armor.

“I know that. I also knew exactly how far from the base I was, and that there had been no Seeker patrols detected within several klicks of my position while I was out. Barring an assassin, Ironhide, I was perfectly safe.” The answering trio of unimpressed grunts was his only reply until he was finally ushered through the base to his office and the many stacks of data pads waiting for him there.

 

*** *** ***

 

It was only a few orns after the attack when Ratchet heard the report, and it chilled his lines. Several units had been attacked just like his had been. Each of the other units were not so lucky, however, as they all lost several members, primarily their medics. It was then that Ratchet realized the seriousness of the assault on his little unit. Megatron’s soldiers were eliminating Autobot medics. For the first time in his existence, Ratchet was terrified of leaving their small mobile camp and prayed he would not need to show his face again. Yet he kept going out with his unit. Always ready to help the injured and slowly accepting the reality of being expected to kill.

Death to a medic was a constant companion. It hovered at the edge of the medical ward and stood at every repair berth waiting for the thin filament of control the medic had to slip and claim the spark of the wounded. Yet, out here where friend and foe was so hard to tell, he was expected to hand mechs over to the Unmaker, kill them out right, if only to keep the mechs of his units alive for just one more cycle.

“Hey Doc, we’re headin’ out.” Ratchet turned to the youngest of the unit, only several cycles past her ten orn review the youngling had been a full-mech creation. Something Ratchet had never understood, but valued nonetheless. He nodded at the femme, Greaswel, and gathered his kit. The magnetic packs attached to their frames and were directly adhered to panels that could transfer them to internal storage when they folded down to their faster alt-modes.

Together the eighteen-strong unit folded down and took to the smaller subterranean routes out to their next house call. This time their destination was near the front, to a Wrecker’s pitched battle. The assigned medic, SpinChar, had taken damage, and Ratchet was the closest to answer the call. Their olfactory sensors registered the battle site even before long-range scanners detected it. The slaughter had been horrific, and the stench of singed energon filled the air, making their intake filters chug twice as hard as usual from all the air-borne particulates that turned any brilliant light source dark and hazy.

Once there he learned the reason they were called the Wreckers, the place was a disaster, and any ‘Cons had been reduced to spare parts and smoldering ruins. Towering spires of hollowed buildings smoked as anything remotely combustible smoldered in the low oxygen environment. Ratchet thanked Primus for the small favor, he had traveled once to an outpost with higher oxygen levels, and had been horrified to learn that fresh energon burnt, and if allowed to warm to make fumes, it exploded.

Here on Cybertron, where methane was rich, sulfur dioxides and nitroxizides were the most common molecules, and fires were rare. They burnt poorly, filled the thin atmosphere with carbon monoxide and sulfuric molecules, and a new threat was filling their thin atmosphere, dihydrogen monoxide was becoming increasingly more common. Rust was constantly becoming a bigger health risk to everyone. Ratchet shuddered as low hanging clouds built up; this new element of Cybertron was not a welcome one. Clouds formed from all the particulates burnt into Cybertron’s atmosphere slowly building until inky drops of thick, caustic acids fell from the sky melting mechs and buildings alike into so much twisted molten slag.

Overhead the clouds built, strange, unfamiliar bolts of electricity arched through the sky. The blinding illumination making the destruction of the battlefield a stark contrast compared to the pitch-black shadows formed by the ruins around them.

Ratchet shuddered, he remembered a time when clouds had only existed on organic planets, where this new ‘lightning’ had never threatened any bot’s systems with electric termination. The war had wrought changes on their planet and this orn he feared it would also bring the destruction of them all.

“Sir, we need to get to Ultra Magnus, he commands this unit.” Lieutenant Afterburn told him, signaling their unit to head into the basin of electrical termination before them.

“Hold it.” Ratchet snarled, pulling several small devices from sub-space, “These are disruptor bracers, they go on your arm, and disrupt external electric charges that could fry your systems. Everyone wears them. _Medical override command_.” He glared at each soldier until Afterburn finally nodded. Ratchet had never used his medical override against him before, and this was supposed to be a danger low mission. So Afterburn only nodded, taking one and putting it on his wrist.

They trooped down swiftly, jog marching to the Wreckers’ coordinates and found much worse than they were expecting. SpinChar had taken damage, a partial lightning strike had fried half his circuitry, making his energon rupture through numerous forced cracks in his lines and ignited from the extreme heat. All round him the other Wreckers showed scorching and bubbled or warped plating from the explosion that his self-ejected arm had caused when it exploded too close to the others.

“Afterburn,” Ratchet spoke softly, “This is critical. I can’t move them without possibly killing them. Look at the spotting along Roadbuster’s exposed arm. That is his neural cabling and that spotting is from either a lightning strike or beam rifle. Any time he moves electrical impulses are transferred along the cable. If the impulse hits a weak point and either shorts causing a few sparks and dead areas at best. At worst it can lead to shorts in other cables or circuitry, mixed or falsified signals or worse, small internal fires leading to full systems explosions – that’s what nearly happened to SpinChar.”

Afterburn looked at Ratchet in horror before looking over to the Wreckers. This not only put Magnus’ crew in danger, it also jeopardized his own. “What do we do?”

“Get on the comm, let the brass know that if we attempt to move without medical attention we will be needlessly terminating the entire main Wreckers command _and_ a medical recovery team. Mention me and my overseer, Maincharger, if they give you grief.” Ratchet silently seethed as he looked down to the Wreckers, slipped his disruptor brace further up his forearm and moved to SpinChar’s side.

Afterburn switched off his comm with bright, stunned optics and a new respect for the medic. From the moment the boxy red and white had been assigned to his unit, untried in battle but unflinching from combat. Ratchet had proven himself after his first foray with them that saw most other field mechs terminated, and yet the mech had never quit despite nearly half of their medical personnel turning Neutral and fleeing.

Yet, his adaptability, courage, staunch resolution to help and protect his patients was not what impressed Afterburn the most about Ratchet, no it was that Elita-1 herself had personally taken the comm and ordered Afterburn to listen to Ratchet and keep him on-line. The femme detail commander knew this medic.

-:- Autobots, we have new orders. The Wreckers have taken serious injuries, we form a perimeter and guard Ratchet until he can stabilize them. Only when Ratchet gives the word will we move out. This is now a medical mission. Any mech with triage training levels two or greater ping in for medical assistant rotation assignment. -:-

Talking to command and getting his orders had taken only a few astroseconds, not even a breem, and yet Ratchet had already attached a disruptor to SpinChar and all the wounded Wreckers in their circle. He now knelt by SpinChar, sensitive fingers tracing over damaged cables and lines somehow swapping out the worst sections, splicing new cabling into the undamaged sections of old and leaving behind something that looked like a solid, single line free from any damage or defects.

‘Huh, I didn’t know that was even possible.’ Afterburn turned from the medic, calling one of his soldiers to go down and act as a medic’s assistant. Only when he looked back half an orn later to see SpinChar and several others resting more comfortably with the worst damage stabilized and resting in medical stasis did he stop to wonder why a medic of his caliber was out here on the front, when he could be manning a safe bay securely in Autobot territory far from danger. It was a question worth looking into.

“Ratchet?” Ultra Magnus led the sad remainder of his Wreckers to the small clearing where they had left their wounded to finish routing the ‘Cons. This sector was finally secured, but the last thing the young commander expected was to find the pacifistic medic from the poor sector he had hailed from. “You're still online?”

Ratchet barely cast a glance in the massive mech’s direction, his scanners running over him before sending an EM field recognition pulse at the mech he had known seemingly forever ago. “So, you’re alive. What do you think I’m doing, smart aft?” Ratchet rumbled as he worked, optics glowing that deep cobalt that spoke volumes about his concern and pent up fear of losing a patient that he expressed as anger and frightening accuracy with his trusted wrench.

“But, the clinic –”

“Got bombed six vorns ago along with your warehouse, the whole sector is rubble. Thank you so much for telling me you’re still alive.” Ratchet vented, “I searched through rubble for orns before I gave up.” He rumbled deeply in his chest, “I finally had my crew trained up perfectly, my tools arranged properly and all my patient files sorted exactly how I needed them and those damned fragging ‘Cons ruined it. Patch, Overscore – everyone was terminated.”

Magnus gasped, remembering fondly the two mechs who had acted like caretakers to ensure Ratchet took time off from the clinic, got proper fuel and recharge. Now, they were gone, just like so many others. “I’m –”

“Sorry? Yeah, everyone is. Now get your sorry skid plate over here.” Ratchet stood with a creak in his knee and gestured to a smoothed pile of rubble he was using as a medical table. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Despite the grief and pain Magnus knew Ratchet was in, he smartly kept quiet and sat down. “Please be gentle.”

“Kid, you’re breaking my spark. I’m the incarnation of gentleness.” Ratchet growled, smirking as Magnus cowered only half jokingly. “Are the others still online as well?” He finally asked softly, silently worried for the gentle Orion.

Magnus snorted, “Orion’s still the same. After the warehouse was destroyed Ariel and I got reformatted, me into this monstrosity, but she’s still pink as ever. The Autobots saved us. ‘The kid’ as you call him followed us to the Autobot headquarters, he was planning on just working the military supply warehouse but, Sentinel Prime took a shine to him. Now he’s in officer training.”

“Officer huh? If Sentinel gets that kid slagged –”

“He won’t,” Ultra Magnus smiled down at Ratchet despite sitting on a low rubble pile, “Sentinel is protective of Orion, as is Elita-1, the femme commander. They won’t let him come to harm.”

Ratchet looked Magnus over critically before nodding, “Fine, I’ll hold you to that, _Dion_.” With deft fingers Ratchet finished the major repairs on the Magnus’ frame before approving his work.

“Its Ultra Magnus now.” Ratchet looked up to his patient’s optics. The lad had been changed by the war. Ratchet sighed, “Well, Ultra Magnus, you’re finished.” He spoke with gruff gentleness, then deftly summoned his wrench from subspace and soundly whacked Magnus’ helm with a resounding clang.

“Gah, dear Primus Ratchet!” Magnus snarled as he cradled the dent.

“That’s for being a dim processored, slag for nothing idiot!” Ratchet kept his voice low, but now all optics were on him. “Your soldiers are suffering from lighting exposure, didn’t you listen to _anything_ I told you about rain and lightning?”

“Uh,” Magnus looked from Ratchet to his crew suddenly terrified of his old friend.

“I thought you were the more level headed of your trio. Instead I find out that you can’t even remember to keep disruptors in sub-space for storm maneuvers _and_ you leave injured mechs exposed with building clouds overhead. They cannot be moved but some are stable enough that they could have erected a shielded crystal-weave canvass to keep the acid off, or hadn’t you thought of that?”

“I – forgot.” Magnus admitted lowly, head bowed and suddenly looking like a towering youngling before his creator.

“Then put that data in a permanent sub-routine so you don’t! Now get your crew cued up for checkups, get that weave up and have Afterburn comm command for pickup.” Ratchet turned from Magnus, letting the Wreckers commander free to bolt to the safety of his troops.

“Do as he says.” Magnus nodded to his troops before seeking out the stunned Afterburn. Magnus smirked at the shell-shocked lieutenant; apparently Ratchet had been acting nice on the sly. This would definitely make for some good stories in the mess. Soon it would be time to go home.

 

*** *** ***

 

Elita-1, femme commander, ‘And all in six short vorns.’ The pink femme stood at attention before Sentinel Prime, letting his words flow over her and through her processors. Her audios recorded and processed his words as her mind wandered.

_… they ran faster reaching the rear of the warehouse and the promise of freedom. Orion stooped to wrench the secret door open just as a shadow fell over them. The world plunged into darkness …_

They had awoken some time later in a small convoy carrying a tiny, beautiful little mechling.

_“Ah won’t lie ta ya, yer the sole survivors of that district. Mah name’s Ironhide, Ah’m bodyguard ta the Prahm and now ta ya’ll  until we get back ta base.”_

_The little femmelet burbled and stumbled around Ironhide’s pedes, looking in the shadows and trilling. Ariel had immediately been entranced with the little one. “I’m Dion, this is my brother Orion Pax and she’s Ariel.”_

_Orion nodded his thanks to his brother, one hand snaking behind the slightly taller Dion to grasp Ariel’s. Together the three watched in silence as the heavily armed and armored mechs moved around their camp and guarded the tiny femlet with adoring care._

Elita stared forward, glanced through her log of what her commander wanted this time. So far he still professed his determination for the protection of Cybertron. The mantra was getting old. Sentinel wanted to save their world she wanted the same thing. However, Sentinel’s words had yet to pair up with his actions.

_“Orion, I don’t trust him.” The newly formed Elita-1 sighed as she spoke. “Sentinel met at our warehouse site willingly!”_

_“But, he saved us.” Orion replied, “Sentinel’s motives are not to protect the Autobot way of life, but to protect the life_ of Cybertron _. His goals are so much greater than any other’s. That is why he is Prime.”_

_Elita sighed, her upgrades had changed the way she saw the world. Now everything seemed so jaded. She looked to Orion, now her lover, and wondered how he managed to keep his optics so clear. Orion never saw the darkness that surrounded him, despite fighting in the lines. He returned from missions and found her first thing, to make sure she was well._

Elita kept herself from sighing. Orion was in officer training now, and nearly through. He had won the respect of mechs everywhere, especially Sentinel Prime.

“What do you think on this, Elita-1?” Sentinel asked suddenly. Elita’s audio processors forwarded her with Sentinel’s new battle outline.

“Sir, the Con’s have stores of energon far more vast than our own. Taking it is preferable to destroying our resource. I have to concur with Tactician Ravid, guerilla assaults on Decepticon storehouses is necessary to further Autobot endeavors.” She replied crisply and finished looking over the options Sentinel had presented.

“I agree,” Sentinel finally stood, “That is why I summoned you here, Elita-1.”

“Sir?” Elita stood straighter still and looked to her commander with a flitter of trepidation in her spark.

“I need a commander able to guide their troops efficiently, and a team slight and nimble enough to get the job done. Your femme contingent is our best choice for this assignment, and for that I need your willingness to volunteer. This task is too dangerous to ask any to perform as an order.” Sentinel looked her squarely in the optics. “I need your skills commander.”

Elita saluted, “Sir, I will take my team on these assignments.”

“Good, take the Shoctros sisters.” Sentinel ordered. Elita swallowed a huff. The gestalt, Shoctros, was a three femme unit. The sisters all had a strange one-wheeled root mode. They were strong fighters, like Steelhand, they were Thetacons, all exposed wires and shifting armor plates.

“Yes, sir.” She responded crisply and was silently grateful Ironhide had hidden little Chromia, his foundling femmelet, with a conclave of minibots on base. She would be safe, and Ironhide would always be near.

Elita turned on her ped and marched from the room. Despite her calm focus, she feared. Sentinel rarely spoke of the Autobots. He never spoke of Decepticons. His words were only of Cybertron and left her feeling a trembling fear that he would do anything to save their planet regardless of the lives it cost.

 

 

*** *** ***

 

Paraxus, the beautiful city of light and knowledge shimmered in the cool air. Kup walked through the streets calmly, smiling on the tottering youngling striding oh so seriously at his side. Spark tight the scout and advisor to the Prime forced his intakes to keep cycling normally. The small figure beside him, however, was not fooled.

“Kup?” Large blue optics filled with bright intelligence, youngling innocence and that strange wisdom some youngsparks had. That strange _knowing_ that allowed them to see right through full grown mechs.

“It’s all right, young’un.” Kup sighed then knelt, turning the miniature frame towards him. “Do you remember what happened last orn?” He would never ask this from a normal youngling, but this one was nothing like normal. Most mechs on-lined with fully developed processors, systems designed and built to specifications necessary to make them functional on a full mech level within a few short vorns.

Not this one.

“Yes,” The little helm canted once in acknowledgement, “They attacked the base. Allthrottle and Weardown terminated.”

Kup nodded sagely, “None of us could live with ourselves if you got hurt. The Decepticons have nothing to gain from attacking Paraxus. You will be safe here, and I am leaving you with a very good friend. We served together back on Indrexni Alpha that had been a rough time. I was heading a small platoon –”

“Still telling tall tales Kup?” A femme’s voice rang out through the early morning gloom when the city lights had yet to fully brighten from the regulated recharge cycle of its inhabitants.

“Still building my repertoire, you mean.” Kup laughed as he gestured the femme closer. “Sagebright, this is Prowl. Prowl meet my old friend Sage. She will be taking care of you until your majority.”

The little youngling standing barely to Kup’s thigh looked uncertainly from his mentor to the femme then dropped all pretenses of maturity and hid behind Kup’s leg. “No!”

Sage giggled, hunkering down on one knee she looked with her most earnest expression to the terrified youngling with such a brave face. “Hi Prowl, I’m Sage. You know, Paraxus is one of Sentinel Prime’s favorite spots to visit. If you come with me he’ll always know where to find you. As will Kup.”

“No.” The little black helm shook emphatically, clinging tighter to Kup like a parasitic growth.

“Prowl, either you go to Sage willingly or it’s to the brig, _alone_.” Kup warned, barking like a drill instructor to a rebellious recruit instead of speaking to a scared youngling. Yet, before Sage could protest, Prowl let go of Kup’s leg as if stunned, miniature stubs along his back standing tall and erect as he moved to stand at attention.

“Yes, Sir.” Prowl replied, tiny hands held stiffly at his sides.

“Come along,” Sage cajoled lightly, holding her hand out to Prowl in invitation. She smiled as Prowl nodded and turned marching in military fashion behind her. -:- You weren’t kidding that Prowl was a strange one. Are you certain he was only beeping and warbling three vorns ago? -:-

-:- Positive, he was essentially a preprogramed protoform when Sentinel found him, and developed this much in so short a time. No one could even unravel his kernel program before it was altering, upgrading itself as he learned. Sentinel Prime is positive that Prowl’s a Precious Spark. If so, then Iacon center was not completely destroyed, there may be more out there, somewhere. He might not be able to fight them, if his systems recognize them as line-sibs. -:-

That was always Sentinel Prime and Reccus’ worst fears, that Prowl would be off-lined by a Precious Spark Con that had learned to ignore the line-sib recognition protocol. It was common in most factory mechs to recognize those sparked around them on the factory lines. Siblings by spark signature recognition were common, leading to family units hundreds of mechs strong as each recognized the others based on their proximity to each other during Primus’ Blessing as they were sparked en masse.

-:- Don’t worry, I can train him not to respond to that impulse. He will feel it, but when I’m done with him he will be collected when it hits him. -:- Sage smiled at Kup once more before shooing Prowl on ahead to her orphanage. Most younglings were just immature mechs stuck in the limbo of youngling hood where their frames were finishing upgrades and their processors were learning their mature code before being confirmed as full mechs and going on their way.

Prowl however had to _grow_ , Kup had seen the youngling's size increase. The little dark gray mechling had also increased his memory capacity seemingly over one orn. Kup took one last glance at the miniature mech he had raised then turned away. Despite one thin wall separating him from the youngster Kup felt he had lost his little charge with acute finality.

Once Prowl was inside Sage turned to Kup with a knowing smile, “My assistants will handle Prowl, how long has it been since you swapped cables with a real femme?”

Kup grinned, optic ridge rising sardonically, “Oh, far too long, but where to find a real femme?”

“Slagger,” Sage chuckled as she grabbed Kup’s hand and drug him to her private quarters – with fully locking doors and interior soundproofing. It wouldn’t do to let little audios hear things they shouldn’t.

 

*** *** ***

 

Afterburn moved through the camp. Once more forward command was reorganizing their army, and he was not amused. Six decavorns of surving the front, and each time they had known Ratchet was there to watch their afts and piece them together afterwards. Six decavorns. It was a Pit long time. Now, the mech shook his helm in frustration and finally pulled himself into the medical tent.

“Name, rank, issue.” Ratchet growled out from behind a desk as he forwarded the last medical reports to the hospital network. Files followed patients and he stayed behind.

“Afterburn, Lieutenant Commander, your reassignment.” Ratchet snapped his helm up with a start.

“What?”

“Forward thins the military is no place for medics anymore. You’re to report to gamma launch delta in fifteen joor for ‘asset redistribution’.” Afterburn snorted in disdain.

“Asset!?” Ratchet half stood, optics bright and livid. “They – I’m – _Asset!_ ” He was speechless, pissed and had no helm to bang to knock some sense into whatever aft-helmed defect-processor glitched _moron_ sent the orders.

Afterburn smirked slightly, “I wish I could see you set the upper command straight. It would give our mechs something good to think about for once.”

Ratchet huffed gruffly, the medic, once just crusty and tempermental was now hard. The vorns on the lines had toughened him up, made him a combatant. This medic was willing and able to take a life. Afterburn silently wondered if Command had thought of that before they had sent his reassignment notice. He figured not, otherwise Ratchet would not be taken from the lines where he was needed most.

“Who will be replacing me?” Ratchet finally asked.

“Medical troops. Trained soldiers capable of field triage life support.”

“In short they found a way to make me in reverse.” Ratchet sighed, “It was bound to happen one day. I can fight, but I’m no fighter. They want someone out here willing to get his plating dirty. They don’t want a medic with morals.” Ratchet looked away. He had been here for so long, longer than at his clinic. He jst wanted a place where he belonged. War or no war, he was tired of being passed around.

He had been loaned out to every unit, farmed out to any region needing assistance. Sometimes he returned within orns, others – Ratchet shoved the throughts away. He was an old fashioned medic in a mad world. There would never be a place for him. He just had to accept that.

“I’ll go pack.” Ratchet left the infirmary a weight suddenly lifting off his chassis he hadn’t realized was even there. Maybe now he could just work on saving lives.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Decepticon Counterpunch walked calmly through the dark depths of Tarn. The city, once a beautiful metropolis in the long forgotten last golden age, was now a dark scar across the surface of Cybertron. The ground was black with charred sooty remains of destroyed mechanoids. The buildings were black from the fires that had destroyed their thin methane atmosphere leaving them a nearly airless void in its place. This dark city was now the home of Megatron's pet and most immoral, unethical follower: Shockwave, Decepticon second in command.

Blue and yellow plating shining dimly in the darkness, Counterpunch made his way through the silent wasteland of the streets, heading for the secret location of the depraved scientist. It was rumored, back before the war begun, that Shockwave had been a brilliant adventurer and scientist. Those legends claimed that once, having discovered a strange portal on an ancient spacebridge that took him to the vast reaches of the universe beyond their known space. Out there, wherever the spacebridge had drawn him, he had been changed. His processors were endowed with new knowledge, his spark warped beyond recognition and a lust for further knowledge had made him into a depraved mech wiling and capable to do anything in the pursuit of his goals.

Counterpunch shuddered silently, pulling his processors from the memories. He was here on a mission, and he just wanted it over with. He moved through the last of the blackened ruins outlining the city's remains until he reached the shattered spire of the former senate building. It was blackened like the rest of the city, but where the other buildings where scorched into broken rubble and ash, this one had become a shattered, crazed and cracked spire of black glass.

Threads of energy still traced through the building making snaking fingers of crimson and violet light dance across its surface and surge through the glassy, black depths. No one could live in this surface building anymore, it was a death trap of random energy surges. Below, however lay his goal. Moving swiftly, audios tuned to the faintest crackle of energy, Counterpunch wove his way through the ruins. His peds made the glass beneath his feet chime and crackle with each step the entire structure threatening to give way under his weight.

He crept along in silence, until he finally reached a black pit of darkness that enveloped a treacherous narrow stair leading downwards into the depths of the very body of their sleeping Creator. Counterpunch always hated descending into Cybertron's lower levels, fearing to be trapped there in the moment of Primus' awakening. To be compacted into a wreckage of plating and wires within the frame of their god, the mental image terrified him.

Through the darkness he traveled negotiating the treacherous stairs and broken pathways until he reached a strangely unaffected level, the crystalline walls of the building were once more an illuminated yellow. The transition was startling as light seared into Counterpunch's light deprived optics. He froze until his optics reset.

Able to see once more, he turned down the next corridor, plating prickling as hostile optics tracked him from hidden locations. He wanted done with this mission, but knew that it could only be performed by a mech. His duty was too sensitive to send by data transfer. No matter how well encrypted the line, Autobots and dedicated Neutrals could always hack their systems. It was a risk they could not afford.

“Designation,” A voice echoed from the very walls startling Counterpunch. He dropped into a crouch, his weapons systems charged and humming, waiting to be activated in an instant.

Counterpuch yelled his name, his voice filled with metallic humming, clicks and warbles that relayed his rank in the Decepticon forces, his commanding officer, and his orders to speak with Shockwave in person. One word conveyed a wealth of information. Seemingly content, the disembodied voice did not speak again. Instead, the corridor opened before Counterpunch, letting him proceed into a massive laboratory that reeked of terror and agony, and rung with madness.

“Speak,” a steady voice spoke, a single yellow optics shining from a darkened corner.

Counterpunch approach fearlessly, unwilling to let himself cycle his vents lest he display the fear he held so close to his spark. “His exalted eminence, Megatron requisitions specialized troops. He needs mechs of uncompromising efficiency, expandable internal redundant safeguards and unswayable loyalty. His greatness also includes these primordial codes from his best circuit designers. He demands these are used without any modification.”

Regardless that he stood only to Shockwave's elbow Counterpunch never flinched as the larger mech held out his hand in overbearing silence. “My orders.”

Counterpunch laid the small data chit into Shockwave's palm and strode from the disturbing space that was the mech's lab.

Orns later, after he had fled the lab and the city state of Tarn, Counterpunch pulled up to McCaddam's Oil House, grateful to be in this neutral space on the border of the acid wastes far from anyone. As he stood from his alt-mode, his plating shifted from blue and yellow to a reverse of his scheme in yellow and blue.

“What took so long?” A world-weary voice asked as the yellow and blue mech sat at the bar.

“Kup, I don't like this.” The other replied as he nodded his thanks for the waiting cube.

“Too bad Punch, Sentinel made his orders, you followed. Now, how's that young whipper-snapper of yours coming along?”

“Jazz is fine.” Punch sighed, silently grateful the youngling he had nearly tripped over in the black opps safe house was not a spy changer like him. Jazz would always be Jazz. Too often Punch had to look at his hands to remember if he was Punch or Counterpunch, Autobot or Decepticon, and wonder which of his sold information and lies had cost the lives of his friends on both sides. There were times when he forgot if he was Decepticon or Autobot. The few spy-changers he had met along the way had all suffered much like him, some handled it better – others self-terminated from the strain.

“He must be getting pretty big by now, huh?” Kup persisted, optics gleaming with the many secrets the old scout held.

Punch sighed, “Jazz isn’t a minibot, but he will barely make a small class mech. He's my best student ever. I wish I could say that Jazz was peaceful, that he would do well in a world without war.” Punch’s helm fell, his hand scrubbed down over his optics in a tense mixture of fear and exhaustion every mech involved in the thrice-damned war knew with spark deep intimacy. “Opps headquarters was attacked last dren. Jazz is still so slagging young. The ‘Con unit had most of us pinned; we were so far from our normal operating parameters it was laughable. We all should have been slaughtered. Then Jazz, happy little Jazz, bounces in, optics wide and burbling – and kills them all. He is a spark from the very blade of Primus, generated in combat and forged in violence. If we ever do find peace, Jazz may not survive.”

“Primus,” Kup sighed.

“He’s not like any mechling I’ve ever seen before.”

Kup snorted, “I hear that. Yours and Sentinel's aren't the only ones discovered. I've heard rumors of at least three others. If those younglings make it to their final upgrades they'll inherit Cybertron.”

“Maybe, I also have the feeling that when they get old enough they'll decide the war for us.” Punch spoke softly and raised his cube in a silent toast. “To their future.”


	6. Threads Aligned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An under appreciated enforcer, a midnight disturbance. No harm ever came from opening a door.

Praxus, the city of culture and light, it shimmered in the radiance of the millions of lights its citizens generated. Every set of optics, every installed light whether within a building or on the front of an altmode added to the radiance of the massive city. Small domes, their air heavy with the methane that used to make up their atmosphere, dotted the cityscape, each holding part of the rich garden collection that made the city famous across the galaxy.

Long ago, the domes hadn’t been there. The stars had hung brilliantly over the city, twinkling through and across the suspended crystals and translucent spires of the many gardens. Prowl had heard the stories, had shared memory files with Sagebright, his caretaker, of the good times, lost to the war and the ever building acid clouds that hung heavy over Cybpertron.

Prowl sat in the Helix Gardens. He watched the floating crystals that hovered in the sky taking in the patterns they wove in subtle currents of the heavy air. It was soothing, to attempt to predict the crystals' movements across the carved crystal skylight. He sighed, despite the lack of emotion on his faceplates, he was content.

He thought back to his first day here, being dropped off by old Kup to stay with Sagebright. With her help he had grown up, and later was accepted to the Paraxan Enforcer Academy. He now was a patrol division tactical analyst. He handled security of the docks ringing their shielded city. His turf was the most dangerous. Prowl like the work, enjoyed analyzing the incoming data on outside influences attempting to access his city.

_-:- Enforcer Prowl, report to District. -:-_ Prowl stood with fluid grace, his optics bright as he darted from the gardens to the main road and folded into his alt mode. Sleek and fast, his street speeder vehicle form was inspired by fliers. Sleek and streamlined his airfoils kept him close to the ground and his turning radius tight.

_-:- En route. -:-_ Prowl responded, his hover mod granting him greater speed. With no friction to the ground Prowl flew barely above the street in the direction of the major port entry known only as the District. Sirens blaring Prowl sailed through the streets, his black frame and intimidating spiked air fins encouraging all others to veer from his path.

He pulled up before the dark, towering buildings of the District. The soaring warehouses stuck skeletal strut-like fingers into the air, each ending in curved claws that served as landing pads for aerial transports. During the height of the duty cycle when bright stars wheeled overhead and the many city lights highlighted the structure, this area was beautiful. The spires reflected shadowed rainbow hued lights, and the crystalline metal composite of their construction seemed to radiate a deep violet from within.

During the down shift, though as it was now, the place was black. Only small lights highlighted the distant landing pads accentuating the talon-like appearance they held. Prowl looked up and suppressed a shudder at the image. He was not one prone to bouts of an overactive imagination, but even he was subject to the heavy atmosphere of the District after the duty cycle ended.

“What is it, sir?” Prowl asked stiffly as he unfolded from his alt mode. Door wings held high he stood at his commander’s shoulder.

“We detected an EMP burst in this sector. The harbormaster called in after the automatic sensors and guard drones failed. They are shielded. This should not be possible.” The enforcer captain of the Praxus security force ground out slowly. The mech was tall, slender, black from helm to ped and capable of dimming every light in and on his frame to work in total darkness.

“Captain Blacklight, the District has over seventeen-thousand individual warehouses spread out over half a megamile. Which warehouse was directly affected, sir?” Prowl scrutinized the structure, logic centers and battle computer running swift calculations on the most direct approach routes to the most high risk locations.

“All of them.” Blacklight ground his gears in frustration, “Every single warehouse has gone dark. We have no connection to anything or anyone within.”

Prowl kept silent for a tic, his optics scanning the massive area, his wings held high as sensitive sensors embedded in their surface analyzed every energy wavelength for data. “There are small vibrations coming from the central tower. There is a ninety-three percent chance criminal activity is occurring in that region. I can only recommend sending in a surveillance and forward assault team to investigate and spread six enforcer patrols per floor of the complex. We would be requesting the entirety of the enforcer reserves, thirty senior enforcer teams and half of the heavy assault and penetration forces.

“There is a five percent chance this is a decoy or trap. To mitigate losses all teams should double their armor and add anti-frag coating before entering,” Prowl replied in moments, other enforcer units still trickled in to report as Blacklight snarled silently.

“You love giving me good news.” Blacklight rumbled. He assembled a data burst for his other analysts still at headquarters and let them pick at Prowl’s initial findings. The young enforcer was good, but youth still worked against him. As did his history of being a Precious Spark. None of the mech’s equipment had been manufactured to spec. Everything was self-grown and upgraded by coding unknown. Blacklight chose never to trust Prowl implicitly, though there were a few times he had regretted that little fact.

Prowl growled internally. His success rate for accurately predicting criminal activity was the highest in the city. He had never lost an enforcer to miscalculation. No civilians had received more than minor damages and only three criminals terminated while resisting arrest in attempting to stop their violent crimes.

He was good! This was what he had trained to do; been built to do, and yet he was always relegated to the back no matter how many times he was summoned first, and held until the last. Cold frustrated fury crept up his spinal array despite how cool and aloof his expression remained, he felt the slightly sharpened talons embedded in the tips  of his fingers tingle as if reaching for violence of their own accord.

“Sorry Prowl, you’ve been overruled. The senior analysts believe we should do a hexad sweep with senior enforcers each leading a search team. We do this their way. Watch and learn youngling.” Blacklight nodded for the gathered senior mechs to gather their units.

“Permission to join a search team, sir.” Prowl asked in his calm, almost monotone voice. “My gun is as good as any other’s, even if my analysis is not up to par.” Saying the last part rankled, his wanted to fight for his decision, but he already knew the outcome of such an action. His battle processr had told him quite clearly on every occasion: He would be forcibly restrained, demoted and dismissed. It was an outcome he was not willing to entertain.

“Granted,” Blacklight nodded swiftly. Prowl silently congratulated himself on reading his commander correctly. "Althihex sent us a temporary commander, and you get to join him. Report to Veyron.”

Prowl tensed. He had heard about the new commander on loan from the Althihex city-state. The claims from their sister city told of a brave mech with high standards and vorns of commitment. Yet, Prowl culd not find a single recorded exploit. The mech was a fraud, one Prowl had been searching for a way to expose since he had arrived in Paraxus two vorns ago.

“Sir,” Prowl accepted his command with grace and moved fluidly to the slightly smaller commander. “Commander Veyron, Security Analyst Prowl reporting.”

“Nice. Never seen an active analyst in the field before.” The commander looked him over appraisingly. “What do you need to operate in the field?”

“I do not understand the question, sir.” Prowl looked at the other calmly.

“You will be running active simulations of our assault as we progress, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Prowl confirmed confusion still swirling slightly in his optics.

“Do you need a simulator? Tactical projection module? Field analysis buffer module? What do you need?”

Prowl stiffened, wings rising higher and ever more tense as he glared, optics little more than fine slits of blue fire, at the commander, “I am perfectly capable of running full onboard simulations as is.” He nearly growled, though his voice was still calm and smooth despite the slight sheen of that fury glinted in his optics.

“Easy, mech.” Veyron held his hands up in appeasement, “I meant no harm. Every analyst I have worked with has needed to plug in to run their simulations.”

“I do not require such. My on board processing suite allows me to command, take orders, fight and analyze real time scenarios simultaneously.”

The commander whistled, his light gray hands planted easily on his silver-blue hip plating. The mech had understated colors that seemed to make him blend into his surroundegs even in the shadows he could take on the form of little more than a patch of hazy light. “Impressive, you must be in high demand ‘round here.”

Prowl only let one wing twitch ever so slightly, yet the commander felt something cold lodge in his tanks, and let the matter drop. The rest of their team assembled swiftly. Two heavy infiltrators guarded their backs, their high-density shields impervious to blades and blasts of most attacks. In point stood one surveillance bot, the femme was slender and lithe, her optics a strange cast of reddish orange. Another enforcer came to stand at Veyron’s other side, the veteran officer had been patrolling Paraxus for longer than any mech could remember. His presence gave Prowl little comfort. Together they made a six mech team, and Prowl felt they were being sent in blind.

“Command recommended hexad sweeps. Was that your call?” Veyron asked calmly, his optic cores forming lighter spheres within his optic band.

“No, I recommended activiating the entirety of the Envorcer reserves and all hevy infiltrator units. To focus the search around the central tower but narrow in the search from the perimeter until all forces could box in the location most likely to contain the criminal activity. Due to the lack of data to work from I also recommended double armor and anti-frag coating.” Prowl replied flatly.

“Why the central tower?” Veyron persisted as the other teams gathered, everything taking too long by Prowl’s standards.

“Low frequency vibrations are emanating from the upper floors of that tower. All outgoing shipments to the Crystal Towers and the Nobles are stored in that region along with munitions for Autobot support initiatives to counter rising Decepticon incursions into our airspace.” Prowl replied flatly, the other enforcers glanced at each other in surprise – even old Firebolt. The veteran enforcer looked coldly at the spire, then back at the command center and snorted disdainfully.

“They snubbed you again?” He didn’t glace at Prowl. He had no need to. “They’ve ignored you every time this dren. Lad, you can do better in any other city.”

“It is a moot point.” Prowl replied softly, wings canted downwards slightly.

“You heard the mech,” Veyron spoke up decisively, optic band glowing intensely, “Grab second shield armor enhancements, have the medical teams install anti-flack shielding. Gear up. Toroid, Downspar equip extra energon boosters in your defensive systems. We’re following Prowl’s recommendations. This is a danger high situation. Regroup in sixty astroseconds, we’ll enter from the top. Assemble in formation dex-hecto-one. Move out.”

Prowl felt his jaw drop, ‘someone listened?’ It felt impossible, and good. He wnted to be useful, he wanted to make a difference, and _finally_ he was getting that chance. Preparations went swiftly, in what felt like a spark beat they were on the landing pad at the top of the central tower. Their touchdown silenced by inpactor absorbors, the six-mech team stalked across the windswept surface into the darkness of the tower.

They moved through the silent corridors. At each step within the warehouse only shadows reigned. Prowl’s wings remained flared, raised with all sensors exposed to the passing air. His processor and battle computer cataloged his team’s movements. Prowl moved in total silence, his frame’s natural running noise silenced with baffles. His commanders knew nothing of the custom upgrades he had added to his naturally silent frame.

Behind him the others moved with telling ped steps and engine noises that gave their positions away. Prowl cataloged each mech’s noises, and let his audios track the unit. Only Veyron moved more silently than Prowl. The enforcer looked to his commander leading the unit. No enforcer could move so silently, nor evade Prowl’s sensors as easily as Veyron had. Firebolt, the aged veteran kept himself well oiled, his joints and gears moving silently. Only an old weld scar hitching under his thigh armor ticked as he moved. The soft, almost subaudial, _thi-snik_ as he walked allowed Prowl to track each step.

The two heavy infiltrators, Toroid and Downspar, moved with subtle thumps at each step. Toroid held his electro-shield in his left hand; Downspar held hers in her right hand. They each had heavier ped-falls on the side they carried their shield on.

Ahead of Prowl the scout, Bolo, moved on silent peds. Her frame moved in fluid motions, nothing catching or hitching, but her systems held a subtle buzz from overtaxed fans. The group paced quietly, their formation tight as they turned through corridors and down halls. The layout of the warehouse complex called for security drones at every major storage unit, yet the halls remained empty.

Prowl felt the calm he carried as they moved darken into tense anxiety. The warehouse was empty. The top seven floors had all been the same way. Prowl let the manifests from the harbormaster scroll along his internal tactical display. These warehouses had been full of weapons, metal ores, crystal cuttings, artworks and sculptures. Pallets of supplies for the elites and nobles of the Crystal Towers were missing. There was nothing here.

_-:- Prowl, I think command should have listened to you. -:-_ Veyron sent through the comm. _-:-It’s too quiet. -:-_

_-:- I second that, -:-_ Toroid rumbled, _-:- This place is giving me the line willies. -:-_

_-:- Silence on the comms. -:-_ Prowl commanded softly, his signal constrained as if holding in his EM field to minimize his presence. The others followed his lead. EM fields pulled in the team moved on.

_-:- Signals came from two more floors down. Take the far stairs. Stagger the line. -:-_   Veyron ordered, taking his cues from Prowl’s forwarded analysis as they moved. The commander was silent in constant awe at the analyst’s amazing, and completely snubbed, capabilities.

As silently as they could, the team moved through the remaining floors. Each level was as empty as the previous one. Conspicuously absent, the drones were nowhere to be seen. Along the floor long scrapes in the floor showed where pallets had ben drug back and forth over the ages. Yet, there remained no trace of the goods once housed here.

Veyron felt twitchy, his optics roaved the halls as they moved. This was larger than the enforcers could handle. There was something wrong in this place, and right now, Veyron wished he had not taken this assignment. Despite the trembling running down his back struts Veyron moved on, grateful for Prowl’s presence in the endless darkness they traveled through.

_-:- Hold -:-_ Prowl commanded across the line. He stepped from the safety of the group and placed his doorwings against the wall before them. _-:- Laser fire. There is no signal outside of this warehouse. Our radios are jammed. -:-_

Veryon silently swore as he tried his comms and found only static. With a silent prayer he was doing the right thing he activated a beacon he had sworn to never use. _-:- How close? -:-_ He asked of Prowl, he looked around around and wondered if this would be his last mission.

“Six buildings over, now our personal comms are blocked as well.” Prowl moved from the wall. “There is movement just beyond the door. I cannot count the numbers.”

Veyron sighed, “Toroid, Downspar take point and shield us. Bolo, guard Prowl, he’s our best chance of getting out of here. Prowl,” Veyron summoned the analyst over. Once close enough Veyron whispered softly, “I need you to guide me. Hard line connection. Your processor, my frame. It’s the only way we can get out of here, and Prowl? What you see in here,” he tapped his helm, “Stays between you and me.”

Prowl stared at Veyron. No senior enforcer would ever expose himself to another’s system in the field. _That was a rookie maneuver._ Prowl erected additional firewals and activated several defensive protocols then nodded.

Veyron stepped closer, his hand extended, data port open and waiting for Prowl’s plug. With a last steadying intake Prowl made the connedtion with a remote module pulled from his arm. Shielded, wireless and completely self contained; the unit was an extension of Prowl’s awarenenss. Instantly Prowl rocked on his pedes as the data link connected.

_FEAR._ Prowl nearly lost his tanks at the overwhelming fear Veyron held within him. _‘I’m not ready for this!’_

‘You are not a senior enforcer.’ Prowl spoke flatly, distrust radiating along his signal.

‘No, not really; I’m a junior agent, special operations, and mah boss’ll have mah platin’ for breaking protocol. Ya gotta keep me a secret, mech.’ The desperation through the channel was nearly palatable. Prowl could alamost taste the fear; breathe the trepidation the special operations mech held within him.

“My recommendations will be uploaded promptly, sir.” Prowl finally spoke, his face and voice as impassive as they had always been. Veyron felt his jaw drop. He knew he was panicing, knew Prowl had every right to completely take command of the unit and expose him. Yet, Prowl only remained calm, as if this was his normal life. Veyron felt his esteem for the mech rise even more.

After a silent eternity, they finally moved out. Through the door between them and the stairs leading down to the floor Prowl felt the vibrations from earlier. Descending the narrow stairs Toroid led with Downspar descending the stairs backwards as she guarded their rear. Bolo stood between Beyron and Prowl, guarding their analyst with her life. Everymech fell completely silent, even Firebolt muffled the weld scar ticking beneath his thigh armor.

“Energy disruptors ahead.” Toroid whispered as softly as he could behind him. He lifted his energy shield slightly allowing the others to see the slight warping in its usually solid-light shield projection. Prowl flicked a wing, his optics dimming slightly for an astro as calculations whirred through his processors faster than their unit could descend the last six steps.

“Hold,” Veyron ordered just as Toroid reached his hand to touch the door. “Prowl, explain.”

“Do not touch anything. The disruptors are likely supercharged capacitors waiting in ambush. Once we cross the threshold there is a ninty-eight percent chance they will completely discharge.”

“Primus, we’ll be fried,” Downspar swore softly, her massive shoulders trembling in the fear they all felt.

“Yes,” Prowl acknowleged. In that moment Veyron hated the mech.

“We will find a way around this.” Veyron spoke up firmly, optic band glaring balefully at Prowl.

“We have only one possible option, with sixty percent chance of success. I do not like the numbers, but retreating is not open to us.” Prowl continued despite the withering glare Veyron kept on him. “Toroid, it will require the sacrifice of your shield.”

“Then I’ll be useless!” Toroid snarled.

“Unlikely,” Prowl negated immediately, “Your secondary shield will suffice sufficiently.”

“What?” Downspar asked from the back.

“A secondary shield modlulated to radiate an energy level equivalent to the natural RF energies radiated from a mech’s running systems should trigger the capacitor explosive. Downspar, Toroid, fall back. Bolo, Firebolt, take flanking positions. Veyron, how fast can you run?”

Veyron’s jaw dropped. “Mech, you’re a sly spawn of Unicron. You want us to trigger the explosive.”

“Negative. I need you to trigger the explosive.” Prowl replied, silently his uploaded the outline of his plan. Veyron only stared, open-mounthed gape turning into a twisted smirk almost worthy of an Unmaker’s Hound.

“Nice, mech, remind me not to piss you off.” Veyron smirked. “Toroid, can you modulate that spare shield of yours?”

“Afirmative.” The taller heavy infiltrator muttered as his hands worked feverishly over the smaller shield controls.

“Commander,” Prowl spoke softly, “you will need to unplug. I am unable to target at maximum efficiency while running your projections in parallel.”

“System limitations?” Veyron asked, and nodded at Prowl’s terse nod. “Mech, you’re amazing.” He pulled the parallel module from his wrist and handed it back to Prowl. “It was nice ridin’ with you.”

“Likewise,” Prowl turned to the others, “Standard attack beta-626.” The others nodded and Prowl signaled Veyron to begin.

Their commander dampened his fields and pulled up several subroutines no enforcer would ever have. He smirked as he moved, this was his element, moving solo in danger high situations. Working with civilian enforcers was no place for him. He hated being in control of other mechs’ lives. It was something he couldn’t handle. Focusing, Veyron attached a remote door opener to the blank, solid metal door and stepped back. The instant he stepped clear of the door he triggered his miniature explosive and blasted the door off its hinges. Frame battered by the explosion Veyron ignored the debirs falling around him and tossed the modulated shield through the door. The astrosecond the shield left his hand he spun and raced up the stairs, and slammed faceplates first into the stairs at his unit’s peds as the capacitor device exploded with enough force to buckle the metal walls in all directions.

“Prowl!” Firebolt’s bellow was lost in the echoes of the explosion. “Prowl get back!”

Veyron stood shakily; thankful Downspar had shielded him from the worst of the blast with her now crazed and sparking primary shield.

“Sir, Prowl moved in alone!” Downspar bellowed loud enough for Veyron to hear her over the ringing in his audios.

“Slagged manipulative dim-sparked bootleg!” Veyron slammed his fist into the ground hard enough to generate sparks. “Everymech, move out. Take formation beta-626!” Silently cursing the analyst, Veyron jog-marched his team into the room and ran straight into a firefight. Prowl knelt within a ring of several drones, wires emanating from his frame plugged into the spark-less frames as he controlled them as parallel firing modules.

Veyron shoved his team into a shielded crater, and fired back at the many figures masked in the hazy smoke that rained laser fire at them. The fire fight was intense, no time for thought as they took only enough time to ensure their blasts were clear of Prowl’s position.

“Bolo, take high!” Veyron bellowed. Bolo looked up and targeted several small forms with blazing crimson, purple and golden optics. She felt her lines chill. These were not drones. The cassette-sized mechs were known to align themselves with larger mechs for safety, usually forming some sort of mental hive protocol that gave their larger guardian some form of command over the cassettes. If these were aligned cassettes, then their master was somewhere nearby.

Bolo’s shots struck true for three of the small mechs, the rest fled, and with their departure the drones fell back into standby mode. The room fell silent, the last echoes of laser fire fading as Veryon stood and took stock of their situation.

“Well, slag-me sideways.” Firebolt whistled as he moved from the crater. “Never knew the kid had it in him.”

“You mean no one has ever seen Prowl command drones in combat simulations?” Veyron demanded, still pissed at the analyst and silently feeling an excitement race through his lines at the possibilities that existed within Prowl’s amazing processors.

“What combat simulations?” Firebolt snorted disdainfully, “The commanders hold something on Prowl, something that they use at every turn to snub the lad. He’s smart, he’s strong, and he can lock down his emotions like no other. Give him a full city to analyize and no time to do it, and he’ll provide enough data to overwhelm the most demanding commander. He has run parallel analyses for several illegal stim busts and two smuggler rings simultaneously, given command the exact information to arrest the active parties and enough detail to identify the major players in the smuggling rings. Each time, his commanding officer has received the credit.

“No one in command believes in Prowl. But you ask any of us standard enforcers, and we’ll all ask to work with Prowl before any other analyst. He is worth staking our plating on.” Firebolt snagged Veyron’s arm as the commander moved to stalk down the errant analyst, “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. You’re the first commander to listen to Prowl, don’t take that small victory from the lad.”

Veyron snarled a heavy exvent and sighed, he drug a hand down his faceplates. “Fine, but I’m having his plating for not telling me his plans.”

“I could not,” Prowl replied as he extracted himself from the laser blast riddled drones, “You would have ordered me to stay with the unit instead of providing a forward presence. I would have obeyed your command and we would have been subject to a ninety-nine point nine-eight percent chance of termination.” Prowl looked Veyron squarely in the optic band, “I could not accept those odds.”

“Fine, but from now on, you talk to me! I would have argued, but not if I had known the odds!” Veyron snarled. “I _trust_ your judgement, so fragging talk to me.”

“Looks like love at first fight,” Bolo whispered to Downspar, making the femmes snigger and Toroid chuckle as their commanding officers snarled at each other.

“They bicker like old spark-mates,” Firebolt affirmed, the others stood back and took bets on who would win the verbal fight. Bolo won.

“Sixteen astroseconds, and Prowl wins the argument with logic. Pay up mechs,” Bolo grinned up at her companions, hand out for their credit chits.

“You’re an evil mech, femme.” Firebolt sniggered and happily handed over his chit. The others followed suit, Downspar cursing softly as she glared at the smaller femme.

“Form up!” Veyron ordered as he and Prowl returned to the unit. No one spoke as Prowl held his hand out, the remote module waiting in his hand for Veyron to take. The move was filled with complete, and utter trust.

Veyron stared at the link, then looked at Prowl for a long moment. He took the module and plugged it in. This time Veyron felt the distinct presence of insanely strong emotional shields. The moment they were clear of the investigation the events of this cycle would hit Prowl like a supreme-sized mech running full tilt. He glanced at Prowl, a new level of respect growing for the overlooked enforcer.

“We move on.” Veyron spoke once the link was extablished and Prowl uploaded his recommendations. “We all saw the cassettes, their command-mech should be nearby. This means we are likely dealing with a situation outside of our norm. Everymech, lock down emotional respose protocols. We cannot afford to let sudden fear make us do something stupid.”

The group looked at one another. The emotional protocol lock was a last ditch effort, one ususally limited to suicide missions. They nodded and locked down their emotion protocols as much as they were able. Instantly the others were able to stand a little more calmly. Veyron nodded and led thw way.

Floors passed, some in darkened silence, others filled with remotely operated drones. In each case the supplies and materials once filling the individual warehouses were gone. Everything was taken, and an increasingly dire suspicion was building in Veyron’s spark, one that would change everything Prowl and the others knew. It would completely alter the place of Paraxus in Cybertron.

-:- _… report. Repeat Commander Veryon, report! -:-_

Prowl stilled, the outside signal ringing through their processors like a promise of light at the end of their dark tunnel. Veyron smiled, a small desperate giggle escaping before he could lock it down.

Hope, terror, _‘please let this be over!’_ the emotions poured through the direct link between Veyron and Prowl.

_-:- Veyron to command, all mechs accounted for. We have encounter most of the drones, they are being commanded by cassette-bots. -:-_

_-:- That is impossible. No cassette master can command drones. -:-_ The stubborn voice on the comm negated derisively.

_‘Primus, no wonder you mechs don’t get anything done in this city.’_  Veyron snarled, his thoughts shared willingly with Prowl. -:- Respectfully, sir, frag off and put someone on the comm who doesn’t have their helm up their aft. -:-

Toroid and the others broke out into laughter, each muffling it as best as they could. Bolo and Firebolt cheered on the comm, others joining in from across the bandwidth.

_-:- This is Autobot commander Punch. This has become an Autobot military situation. Enforcer Veyron, report. -:-_

_-:- Sir, I will be putting our analyst Prowl on the comm, he can fill you in. -:-_ Veyron turned to Prowl, “Give him a data transfer of everything, including your initial recommendations, and how Blacklight responded.”

Prowl nodded, closed his optics for a second then sent a highly encrypted data burst carrying his full report. The Autobot pinged a receive response atutomatically and the line fell silent.

“Everyone, take door flanking positions. We still have a long ways to go, and until we receive new orders we hold this position.” The others saluted Veyron’s orders and moved, two each to the one door in and two out of their narrow hall they now stood in. Two warehouses flanked their hall and the door they had entered in that led to the stairs to the next floor up.

_-:- Prowl -:-_ Punch spoke slowly, his voice though calm was cold with restrained fury, _-:- Your initial analysis was correct, only it was a Decepticon raiding party emptying the warehouse you picked up on. I am having my exterior analysts send you an encrypted data packet of their findings. I would like your input. -:-_

_-:- Yes sir -:-_ Prowl confirmed and turned to Veyron, ‘I can’t analyze the amount of data they will be sending at full capacity right now.’

‘You need to unplug?’ Veyron asked, and lifted his wrist with the tiny module attached.

‘Either that, or have you guard me.’ Prowl flashed data values and processing speeds he was reqired to work with and Veyron could only keep from whistling in shock.

‘I’ll watch your back, you just do your thing.’

Prowl took a knee, his wings flared and pressed firmly against the wall and locked in place for support. Then, he shut down. All external sensors were sacrificed for his analysis. Veyron watched in something akin to respect and horror combined. The mech was insane.

Astroseconds ticked by which turned into breems and those passed becoming a full groon. _-:- Commander Punch -:-_ Prowl spoke over the comm suddenly, making his team start and Veyron twitch at how exhausted his voice sounded. _-:- Decepticons position is likeliest at the base of the central dockhouse. There is a sub-level six basement; it holds controls and data-link connections through the entire facility. Signl boosters are positioned near there that would enable a single mech to expand his digital control to fill the entire warehouse complex. -:-_

Punch’s line stayed silent, but the team trapped in the central warehouse tower could almost feel the Autobot’s glower at his own mechs across the line. ‘Slag, he’s pissed.’ Veyron thought, and flinched as he remembered Prowl was privy to his thoughts.

‘Autobot?’ Prowl asked softly, his thought voice even more taxed than his report to Punch had let on.

‘Yeah, mech, you’re getting me mighty worried here. Are ya gonna gutter on me?’ Veyron asked, keeping his face as impassive as possible, but a flash of worry still betrayed him.

‘I will not gutter. My tanks are low and I have no reserves.’ Prowl smirked slightly as a tiny trace of irony flickered across the line, ‘this was supposed to be a short shift.’

Veyron almost laughed hysterically, the one mech they utterly relied on, was completely unprepared. He sighed, Prowl was as materially unprepared for this as Veyron was mentally. ‘All ya gotta do is ask.’ He held out a small cube of thickened energon.

‘Thanks,’ Prowl accepted the cube and sipped slowly. He moved from his position, taking it and sharing it among their unit. No one got much, but after the full cycle stuck in the warehouse they were all running low. He handed the remaineder to Veyron who only smirked and shook his helm.

‘Take the rest, I’m fine.’ Veyron stilled.

_-:- Commander, take your unit through the following coordinate points. I need a sweep of the warehouse and a targeting algorithm for any further drone assault units you encounter. -:-_

_-:- Negative, sir. -:-_ Prowl interrupted, _-:- Whatever mech is controlling the cassettes is doing it hard line free, this mech might be a communications specialist, and thus able to hack your assault command into attacking us or your own units. The mech knows all positions by now. -:-_

_“Youngling, you found yourself a top-rate analyst. Keep him alive at all costs.”_ Punch’s voice filled Veyron’s helm. Prowl looked at his commander.

‘Youngling?’

Veyron smiled sheepishly, ‘This is – uh – my first solo mission.’

Prowl smirked humorlessly, ‘Mine as well.’

“Move out, we’re halfway through and we still have a long ways to go.” Veyron ordered, like the others he was sounding more tired.

“Welcome to the down cycle.” Firebolt groaned and rubbed his scarred thigh. “I’m requesting RnR when we get through this.”

“I will put in the requests personally.” Veyron replied and signaled for silence.

More floors passed, and silence reigned. Beyond the walls of their tower Prowl felt intermittent firefights, and occasionally they all felt a distant thump and shudder as something exploded. The atmosphere was tense, the darkness seeming to grow more powerful with each step.

‘The last ten floors are one large open warehouse with catwalks. We will have no cover.’ Prowl let his thoughts slip across the line to Veyron.

‘What are our chances?’ The commander asked, his optics never ceasing to scan the narrow stair they climbed.

‘Slim, sir.’ Prowl replied coldly. ‘My numbers are not inspiring.’

‘So this is it?’ Veyron sighed, ‘I’m glad ta have known ya, mech.’

‘Likewise, sir. It has been an honor.’ Prowl’s mind voice trembled and his emotional shields waivered. The line deluged with terror, insecurity, desperation and an iron will keeping it all just barely in check.

‘I used to know you, a long time ago.’ Veyron sent as they approached the final door to the massive ten-story warehouse at the base of their tower.

Prowl felt the shudder, his barest hint of sensing something wrong the only warning before the door blasted outwards and slammed Veyron into the ground.

“Fire!” Prowl barked, “Infiltration, forward knee!” Toroid and Downspar knelt at the fore of their unit, shields planted firmly side by side to shield their team, Veyron abandoned as they fought to survive. Bolo extended gripping pads over her fingers and knees. Walking silently she climbed the walls and clung to the ceiling, targeting the nearly invisible figures through the doorway from her higher position. Firebolt and Prowl knelt in flanking positions beside the doorway, each taking pot shots through the portal as they could.

Inching forward, with carefully timed movements, Toroid and Downspar pushed through the doorway and blocking the landing so the others could get more room to maneuver.

They were everywhere. Drone, mechs, frames of all sizes filled the bottom warehouse. Prowl felt his spark drop in his chassis. He was an enforcer with a six mech team and their commander was down. They didn’t need enforcers here, they needed the entire Autobot military.

“We are so slagged.” Toroid rumbled as his optics took in the same data Prowl had already processed.

_-:- Request fulfilled -:-_ Prowl sent the heavily encrypted data packet to Punch’s comm and prayed. The positions of every mech in the ware house was listed, including his small team. With luck, the Autobots’ fire would not bring the warehouse tower down on their helms.

“Decepticons, open fire!” A voice screeched through the darkness. Instantly the room lit with a thousand lasers, the strobe-effect of the weapons blast semed to make the enemy numbers treble. Downspar’s shield flickered wildly as its already damaged structure absorbed the lasers’ energy. The damage increased with every hit. Toroid’s shield was little better, his glowed and dimmed as it took on the energy of the Decepticons’ weapons.

Overhead Bolo screamed, and fell, her optics dark and cold. Prowl felt sick, and fired more desperately.

“Autobots, attack!” A voice rang through the darkness and suddenly there were lasers blasting from all sides. Prowl gave the command to fall back, forcing his unit back into the doorway. _-:-Punch, our coordinates follow. Awaiting orders. -:-_ Prowl sent swiftly as the battle began in earnest.

_-:- Stay back, this is our fight now. -:-_

‘Did we win?’ Veyron’s voice sounded in Prowl’s mind.

‘Uncertain, the Autobots have moved in, and Bolo has fallen.’

The noise of their movements covered by the battle beyond their meager shelter, Prowl helped Veyron out from under the door. ‘How badly are you injured?’

Veyron smiled, his optic band cracked and helm dented, ‘I’ll live, believe me, I’ve had worse.’

With unsteady pedes the commander moved to Bolo’s position, ‘She’s in stasis, not terminated. If we can get out of here, she might have a chance.’

Prowl’s optics raked across the landing and over the plated walls of the stair well they hid in. ‘There should be a mini-bot access hatch. This leads into the electronics core, and only the mini-bots are capable of moving in there standing up.’

Veyron smirked, ‘So we might make it crawling?’ Prowl nodded once, and began running his wing-panels against the stairwell walls.

“What’s the plan? My shield’s fizzing fast and my spare is toast.” Downspar called back, her optics wide and scared despite the emotions-lock.

“We move out.” Prowl replied and kicked in a camoflagued panel. Firebolt followed swiftly, the unconscious Bolo cradled in his arms. “Veyron! Take rear, you’ve got the smallest frame.” Prowl turned and followed Firebolt, letting Toroid and Downspar follow.

“He’s a natural.” Veyron mused aloud as he watched the sharply folded door-wings fade into the darkness of the crawl space. Once the others had moved on, Veyron slipped into the opening and rigged the panel back in place with a surprise for any ‘Con crazy enough to follow.

They crawled. The corridor twisted and branched, several times Prowl had to order the others to back up and take another path. All around them the plating rumbled, laser shots punctured the walls around them and munitions screamed from across the meager wall plating. Emotional locks failed and they all were terrified. Prowl alone kept his face and voice calm, though Veyron was privy to the terror the black and white mech kept hidden within.

“I think this is it.” Prowl finally called back, his voice was staticky with exhaustion and fear. They were all too tired to care if Prowl was as strong as he pretended to be. They were worn beyond fear, doubts faded untold groons ago. The last ten floors had become a full cycle of constant bombardment and redirection forced by the firefight between the Autobots and Decepticons.

Prowl kicked the panel out, and cried out as hands grabbed him. He looked around, red emblems on strange chests encircled him. Prowl felt the beginnings of a full emotional recoil as he suddenly realized, they were safe. His team soon stood around him, Veyron once more at the front.

‘Thanks for the ride, mech. Keep stalkin’ the bad guys, I gotta bounce.’ Veyon sent with a small smile and pulled the module from his wrist.

Prowl accepted it and felt bereft. “Bounce?” He looked to Veyron with wide optics. The other mech could only wink.

“Where is he?” A voice broke through the clamor around them.

Prowl pulled his optics from his temporary commander and stood at attention, emotional locks once more in place as Enforcer commander Lockdown broke through the Autobot ranks. “Analyst Prowl?”

“Sir,” Prowl stepped forward his full attention focused on his emotional locks and keeping them in place until he was dismissed.

“I have been made aware of the situation. You have two orns leave; come back for reassignment. You have been a wasted asset for too long – What the?” Lockdown grabbed Prowl’s door wing with a firm grip, “Your injured and so is your team – Medic!”

At that moment Prowl’s emotional lock broke – the walls of his internal defenses crumbled and he was reduced to a shivering, trembling young mech who was in over his helm. Lockdown could only hold Prowl’s shoulder and wounded wing as the lad curled in on himself and keened.

Around him, the enforcers who had walked the Pits with him stood close and the Autobots could only watch on. They knew the Smelter the enforcers had just walked through, they knew what this Pit-spawed war was like. Now the enforcers of Paraxus knew as well. The Autobot medic scurried to the unit, badging surrounded by his red crosses. The instant Medic Down-Score arrived, Prowl’s circuits locked up and the young enforcer collapsed into the medic’s arms.

“I expected that two cycles ago,” Firebolt sighed, “That youngling has manifolds.” Sequestered within the shielding ring of Autobots the worn team of enforcers recooperated and listened to the continuing sounds of battle echoing from within the warehouse complex. They all knew that life in Paraxus would never be the same again.

 


	7. Pattern Weaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precious Sparks seem to gravitate towards each other. New faces join the fray.

Shockwave looked over the creations. They were complete. Upon his internal display the timer counting down his time until Lord Megatron demanded his requested troops flashed the ever-dwindling countdown. Behind him, piled high like broken pylons lay the sad remains of dozens of younglings. Some still retained color in their frames as their sparks slowly guttered in mute, frozen agony.

“Requested troops have been completed, Lord Megatron,” Shockwave spoke bluntly to the silent laboratory. With the frames complete, he summoned a transport to the front line for Lord Megatron’s approval. He looked the two frames over once more, so simple, so completely perfect in form and function. They accomplished the goal of the Lord’s request to the letter: Uncompromised efficiency, expandable redundant safeguards, and unswayable loyalty.

He looked upon them, so alike, and yet so different. He rejoiced in silence at his accomplishments. He had done it! Finally, after the destruction of a thousand sparks, and the termination of dozens of others, he had made force-twins. One spark cleaved in two making twins. He looked up unknown joor later as the transport arrived. Large mechs came in through the underground entrance, collecting the large fighter framed younglings and placing them in a grounded aerial transport.

Shockwave looked at them one last time. The frames were solid hued, one black, the other white. They would be called Ruiner and Raindown. They would be the most powerful units Shockwave had ever created. He held his head high and collected the major equipment he needed. This lab had served its purpose, now he would move to urgent needs elsewhere. He went where Lord Megatron pointed, obeyed every command, and led the troops he was given with an unrelenting fist and overwhelming fear. His lone optic looked over the still twitching and fading pile of dying younglings. They would terminate soon enough, there would be no witnesses, and the staff that helped him in this greatest of endeavors? He looked to the pile of spare parts and nodded, they had already been delt with.

Behind the ruined tower that had hidden Shockwaves lab a lone shuttle lifted off from the ground, arching lowly over the ruined landscape as it tracked to the rear command of Megatron’s mobile army. The metal landscape of Cypertron passed slowly below, buildings coming and going in the darkness. Tiny patches of fire flickered upon the ground, the only sign of continued violence in the ruined surface city.

Running silently, the comms off to prevent tracking by Autobot troops, the shuttle exploded into flames. Shrapnel rained over the wasteland surrounding Tarn, chunks of debris falling to ground up to several megamiles in all directions. Except, for one lone cargo module, and the two resting frames it carried. That alone fell straight down into the wastelands to land at the pedes of the Neutrals that had taken down the Decepticon transport.

“Hah!” one figure cried in triumph, “Now let's see the Decepticons get any of these weapons.”

“It's not weapons.” Their leader spoke. He opened the module to reveal two brand-new, shiny models. Both running in start-up mode waiting for their activation codes to on-line for the first time.

“They’re warriors.” Another breathed slowly.

“They could be pre-programmed.” An older voice spoke. “We will keep them, and raise them as Neutrals. They will choose our side – or die.” All nodded in silent agreement the small group of Neutral refugees attached hover clamps to the module and walked away to vanish into the darkness of Cybertron.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Decepticon Counterpunch walked calmly through the dark depths of Tarn. The city, the dark, crazed scar across the surface of Cybertron, had fallen into worse disrepair over the allotted vorns since he had dropped off the troop request. The ground, still black with charred sooty remains of destroyed mechanoids now had the gray rubble of destroyed buildings mixed into the debris. The disturbing, fractured remains of buildings were black from fires and rose from the thick, dusty round like jagged denta of beast-mechs.

Counterpunch made his way through the silent wasteland of the streets as he followed the remembered path from his first visit. He constantly looked over his shoulder and scanned the open maw of every ruined building. The scrabbling of small figures sounded as he passed. Ped-steps echoing strangely in the preternatural stillness Counterpunch held his vents on low, hoping to stay invisible until he reached his destination. At every cross-street, every wall opening or broken doorway he tensed, the feeling of being watched, targeted, followed him with every spark beat and made his plating chill and prickle in tense, nervous anticipation.

Counterpunch shuddered as he reached his destination, his last meeting running wildly through his processors as fear of Shockwave hit him like a physical force. He moved through the last of the blackened ruins outlining the city's remains until he reached the shattered spire of the former senate building. The shattered, crazed and cracked spire of black glass that had once been a brilliant tower of crystal lay mostly broken along the ground. The ruined remains of the building lay open, the once hidden stairway down now revealed and broken.

The spychanger gulped nervously and jumped through the broken stairwell, landing several floors below with a grunt and a massive hiss of compressed air escaping his impact absorbers. He looked around, mouth opening in shock at the sight. The lab lay open and ruined before him. Piles of mech parts and gray frames twisted and distorted in agony filled covered the floor. To the side, a workbench surrounded by dusty sterility lay in immaculate condition. He traced a fingertip across the surface and looked at the accumulated dusty debris. This place had been abandoned several vorns ago. No more than three.

“Where did you go?” As his desperate voice echoed in the silent room, nothing moved, no one came to investigate, and Counterpunch fell to his knees. The requested troops had been completed ahead of schedule, and now he would have to report to Sentinel that his mission had failed. Once, he would not have minded. That was the nature of such things. Either you predicted correctly and succeeded, or you failed and hoped to get out alive. Now, though, he almost feared to report to Sentinel as much as he feared to face Megatron. The decavorns had changed the Autobot commander. Rumors of him being a False Prime had started to circulate, and along with so many others in the forces of the Red Haze, Counterpunch wondered if the rumors were true.

_-:- Counterpunch to Starscream, I found Shockwave's lab. There is no sign of Megatron's requested troops or Shockwave. -:-_ Counterpunch radioed into to his commander, the SkyCommander.

_-:- Good -:-_ the high, shrieking voice replied, _-:- Soundwave has lost face before Megatron. Those_ requests _will never be found. -:-_

Counterpunch signed off silently, hiding the shudder that Starscream's voice filled him with. He turned from the ruins of the surface layer Tarn. Below ground the city still thrived, but that would last for another day. His contacts had already scoured the lower city looking for signs of betrayal from the demented Second in Command.

With one last look around Counterpunch stalked through the laboratory, and stumbled through the rear hall leading to a defunct landing pad. With one last sigh, Counterpunch folded down into his alt mode and took the small, hole-riddled roadway from the landing zone through the ruined city to the surrounding wasteland. He just had to make it to the edge of the Black Sector to meet his liaison. Then he could finally go home.

 

*** *** ***

 

Jazz stood on a low ridge of broken metal overlooking the wasteland of the Black Zone. Out here energon had ceased to exist save what a mech carried within his own lines. Doubt plagued Jazz, filled his processors with questions and doubts. The four vorn undercover mission in Paraxus had, according to Punch, been an utter failure – like Jazz.

Scared, weak, Jazz had caved into fear while protecting others and asked for help. He should have stepped up to face the challenge, instead, he had stepped back and leaned on the enforcer, Prowl. It was only when he had been pulled from Paraxus and returned to his normal appearance the Punch had shown Jazz the last thing he had wanted to see.

The on-duty medic had pulled a recorder chip from Jazz’s own processors. The device saw everything Jazz saw, knew every move Jazz made, knew every word spoken, every thought and fear. The only limitation was private comms. Jazz was grateful for that small kernel of privacy between him and Prowl.

Prowl, the mech with amazing processing capacities, had literally save Jazz’s life as he pretended to be Enforcer Veyron. Jazz wondered if Prowl knew how much he had been used in the warehouses. Prowl likely believed he had just done his duty, but to Jazz, it was more. Prowl had been Jazz’s bulwark. Prowl locked off his own emotions and remained stable when Jaz had been terrified. Prowl outlined commands and plans of attack when Jazz had been blindsided so badly eh couldn’t even think of how to save himself.

“That’s why Ah work alone. There’s no one ta fear for. It’s a shame.” Jazz sighed. His performance had barred him from the higher echelons of black opps. That division relied solely on impersonation, improvisation, and integration into whatever folds of society the job took them to. Jazz was special opps, a solo specialist, and saboteur.

_“Become a leader, become a follower, become anything asked of you. If you are asked to become Unicron, be Unicron and make the Unmaker proud. If you are asked to become Primus Himself, become Primus and make the world bow to your greatness. That is black opps, and you are not worthy.”_ Punch’s words had driven through his plating like red-hot metal spikes through his plating. Jazz rubbed his plating over his chest plate with a grimace, his spark felt broken.

Punch’s division had been Jazz’s dream since he had fallen into a black opps safe house as a burbling sparklet so long ago.  He had worshiped Punch growing up, but now – now he felt disconnected from his mentor. The mech who had raised him had thrown Jazz into a training camp and seemingly washed his hands of the youngster. Now, Jazz didn’t know who to turn to, or where to go. Even as he waited here in the crazed shadows of a nameless ruined city Jazz could only wonder if he would ever be someone worthwhile. He wanted to be the best, he was cold, ruthless, beguiling and friendly. He could chat a mech up, get more intel in a few breems than most inquisitors could in an orn then share an energon with his mark and walk away from the graying corpse.

So, why could he put his life in danger without balking, yet freeze the moment another life rests in his hands? The question shelved itself as a figure moved in the darkness. Jazz hunkered low in the shadows, suppressed all systems and triggered his stealth mods.

The distant figure approached, resolved itself into a familiar looking frame of reversed blue and yellow. At the sight of the Decepticon haze upon the yellow hood, Jazz began moving on light peds and fired as he ran. The figure screeched to a halt, reverse hover thrusters screaming to oppose the forward momentum even as the mech transformed. The color scheme flipped upon itself, the purple haze becoming red, and there stood Punch. Blaster held at the ready Punch crouched below a pillar.

“Stupid move, old mech,” Jazz ground out behind Punch his blaster pressed into the blue helm, “You never approach a rendezvous point in the wrong haze.”

Punch cycled a tic, then breathed out slowly, “I know.” He glanced back as much as he could to Jazz’s dark visor and cold frown. The last mission had changed the lad, changed him for the better. A few more missions and some oxidation under his young plating, then maybe Jazz could try again for the Blacks. “Shockwave abandoned his lab, the order is gone.”

Jazz frowned, visor darkening further to almost black, making him appear as a walking corpse with lightless optics. “That goes on your helm. I told you to place spy drones on the building.”

Punch smirked, “Yeah you did. I took a chance, and I was wrong.”

“Well, since you’re early, guess I can take that next mission after all.” Jazz spoke flatly. The warm camaraderie they had once shared was gone, broken like the shattered buildings in Tarn.

In a way, Punch wanted to kick himself. Jazz had been too young to place in an immersive training camp, but the youngling had been dangerous, untrained, violent and malicious when provoked. They had had no other choice, especially after Ripper. Punch thought back on the undetected Decepticon spy in their ranks. Jazz had sensed something wrong in the mech, confided in Punch, and had been laughed at. Feeling overlooked the youngling had taken matters into his own hands. The trap Ripper had walked into had been elaborate, something worthy of a senior agent. Triggered by spark resonance and proximity combined, the trap had drawn and quartered Ripper then flung his helm onto a pike. One lone reprogramed spy drone had witnessed the carnage, and when Ripper had ceased his functions, the drone had hacked his powered down processors to replay every astrosecond of data the mech had carried, including private meetings with Megatron.

Punch frowned, instead of congratulating the youngling he had yelled at the kid, thrown him in the roughest form of boot camp know to the Autobots and abandoned him for a full decavorn. Jazz had never been the same since. “Yes, apprentice, it does.” He replied coldly, hiding from his face how much it hurt to say such so coldly.

“Fine,” Jazz nodded, “I was requested to meet you and forward the report. Am I dismissed?” Jazz looked coldly at his once creator figure and hero emotionlessly.

“Yes, now leave.” Punch commanded and moved on, never looking back.

Jazz sighed, no wonder he preferred to be alone. He thought over all the mechs he had been raised with, who had been his family. Most had been terminated on one mission or another, the others had abandoned him just as Punch had. Jazz turned and walked the opposite direction of his mentor, heading to his next mission, the next mark. Who knew, maybe, this time, his mark would be feisty, and willing to swap cables before he died.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

It felt like he had been reliving the same orn for the last two decavorn. Rise, take his ration, see the psychiatric patients he was unsuited to fixing, mend the small tears and minor hurts the mechs inflicted upon themselves in their deranged ravings, then went to recharge. Orn in, orn out it was always the same.

Ratchet wanted to scream. The oh-so benevolent Prime had sent him here, wherever the slag this was, to be a nursemaid to a bunch of loonies that needed more help than he could give them. This wasn’t a matter of their neural circuits being faulty or broken – mostly. For the majority of those kept here they had suffered such emotional and mental trauma that they could no longer function properly and their only choices were detainment here, or termination.

Ratchet hated both options. Here there was no one to help them! He seethed about that daily. How slagging difficult was it to train a few Neutral pacifists into shrinks? There were enough mechs and femmes here to fill a couple battalions spread over the entire complex. Ratchet reigned on this floor. Several other medics worth their mass in energon ruled the other floors. Most, unlike Ratchet, were grateful to be free of the fighting, the daily trauma of the repair wards.

Ratchet had other ideas. He paced his ward, absently repairing what hurts appeared before him. His hands busy of their own accord he looked for the hidden door that new patients were brought in through. Regularly new mechs appeared in their mists, some nearly sane, others so lost in their processors that none could reach them. Ratchet just wanted out of this mad house. He looked through the ward pacing, ever pacing the one long hall, on opposite sides of the long corridor single doors led off at regular intervals to separate rooms, fifteen doors on each side. Three steps, another door, the repetition was maddening.

He paced, turned, and checked a room that had fallen too quiet. The trembling femme inside had more lucidity in her optics today, maybe some improvement. He patched a small abrasion in her plating and moved on. He passed door thirteen, fourteen, fifteen – “Wait an astro.” Ratchet froze, optics wide. The left side of the corridor had a sixteenth door. Ratchet pulled the door open, optics wide he stared as the room slowly assembled from small squares of shining light.

“If it’s assembling –” Ratchet charged through the light, shoulder to the darkened void the chips of light poured through. He stumbled as the floor vanished beneath him, falling a short distance Ratchet landed with a clang. “– then it’s not solid”

“Oh, Primus,” the medic groaned, optics open to the ceiling he watches as a device resembling a cannon poured out a stream of light that fractured and broke into the millions of little squares. He stared at it, processors nearly numb from the fall.

It didn’t make sense. Why was the room building itself? He finally looked around, spotting a smallish mech huddled in a cage. “A cage!” Ratchet finally moved, peds scrabbling for purchase on the strangely smooth floor. He rose and raced to the cage holding a young mech. The trembling bot had a red helm, black shoulders and white accents everywhere. Unsteady blue optics looked up at Ratchet.

“Help – me?” Ratchet looked the bot over, watching as the small frame glitched and sparks arched from the small red sensor horns adorning his helm.

“Slag.” Ratchet huffed as he pulled his laser scalpel from subspace and sliced neatly through the strange bars holding the small mech inside. “I have to access your helm port, will you let me?”

Scared, confused optics looked at Ratchet blankly before nodding once, almost involuntarily. Hands moving swiftly Ratchet uncovered the port plugged in a data scrubber module and plugged his diagnostic cable into the module. Fragmented firewalls shuddered as he ported in. Disjointed data streams flowed and churned as wires crossed and damaged circuits sent inconsistent signals making the young mech glitch and writhe.

“Calm down, it’s okay youngling.” Ratchet spoke softly using words he had not uttered since he tried to make younglings with Wheeljack’s assistance so long ago. For a second he missed his spark brother, the one he had scorned when Jack and Huffer had joined the Autobots. How long ago had it been? Two decavorn? Ten? He had stopped counting.

“Who are you?” The voice asked tentatively. Ratchet sent a data packet, guided the youngling in unraveling it as his hands mended the damaged connections. The youngling was silent as he engrossed himself in reading the data. Optics tracked unconsciously over mentally streaming data. Ratchet smiled slightly, this one was very young, and at the same time, he’d been around for several decavorn.

“And who are you?” Ratchet asked with a kindly smile, though he’d rather be snarling at the mess the youngling’s processing circuits were in. Someone had been experimenting on this young thing. Ratchet frowned as he worked, noting the youngling’s complete blankness on a designation. With a huff Ratchet dug through the distorted memories, noting long absences where data had washed through the processors without any storage. He peeked through the time stamps finding spans of vorns skipped in the storage banks.

“No clue, huh? That’s alright.” Ratchet finished the work he could do and sealed the helm once again. “Can you stand?” The smaller figure nodded mutely, then on wobbly peds took his first tentative step.

“Ra-chet” The figure stumbled his word, “Help?” Wide eyes looked at Ratchet with utter innocence.

“Yes, I’ll help you, but you must follow me.” Ratchet spoke softly, fearing to spook the youngling. They moved across the strange, smooth room, ignoring as the empty cage was sucked into the room of glowing light and vanished. Ratchet found a hallway and moved down it. As he moved he kept tabs on the youngster behind hi ad slowly details he had never noticed in all his time here began to emerge.

They weren’t on Cybertron. That realization hit him like a city-former. The gravity was nearly non-existent. How long had he been keeping his frame magnetized to keep him attached to the floor? Why was the youngling behind him magnetized as well, when he could not even remember how to fully access his own vocal processors? Ratchet felt as if he was waking from a dream.

He had been taking drugged energon. He could taste it now; it was past time for him to refuel. The bitter tang at the back of his glossa and the fuzziness at the edges of his field of vision were symptoms of processor affecting drugs. For what? Why give him meds – ? Realization dawned on him. None of the other medics had visible tempers; none of the other medics used the choice words Ratchet was fond of. He was being drugged to become nice. Ratchet smirked as he continued to stalk down the hall. When he found out who had done this to him, that mech, femme, celestial entity or alien, whatever it may be was slagged.

“No.” The youngling spoke, crackles of electricity sparking from his sensor horns. “Bad mechs, don’t go.”

Ratchet looked down at the hand on his arm, then over to the hazy, scared optics. “Then which way?” He asked softly, feeling somewhat amazed when the black hand pointed to a recessed doorway he had completely missed. “Through there?” The horned red helm nodded once. “Alright, just keep me going the right direction.”

Ratchet had no clue why he was listening to an insane mechling with minimal processing capacity. Maybe it was the residual drugs in his systems. If it was, he hoped he’d burn through the rest before long. Being this nice felt grating. Moments later they entered a small shuttle hanger and hid.

Everywhere Ratchet looked strange-tailed organics with blue plating – his mind searched for the word he sought, their covering was not metal, but individual small strings grew from their heads, necks, shoulders, arms; anything exposed through their clear space shielding was covered in the blue string-stuff while their faces were tan. Fur! His mind pulled up an image of Wheeljack’s victory dance when he had completed a project without an explosion as the word was finally found. The strange organics had blue fur.

“Councilor Gravitas, the treatment for these mechs has been finalized. All patient rooms are filled. The medical assignments have been confirmed, and initial programming installed. This recovery base is ready to ascend.” One of the blue creatures spoke to a mech Ratchet’s mind told him had fled long ago.

The mech, an ancient gray and black figure stooped with age nodded, “Master Torkulon, this collection of mechs and femmes are the best sampling of what remains of our Neutral population. These are pacifists irrevocably changed by war. Protect them, from their own people and make them sane.”

The smaller organic nodded, “Yes, will do so. Payment has been approved and accepted. Have all non-patients clear the platform. It is time for us to depart.”

Ratchet swallowed and moved once the pair had passed, they had to get out of here. He slipped into an open shuttle, dragging the youngster behind him. Once he had the other strapped in, he sat in the cockpit – and stared. “Scrap.” He was not a pilot. He looked over the controls and wondered where to start.

“Here.” A black hand touched several buttons in sequence, initiating the flight protocols and lifting off smoothly. “Where safe?”

“Safe, ha.” Ratchet sighed as the youngster took the helm and guided them from the shuttle bay out into the black expanse of the stars. “That way.” He pointed to the nearby shape of Cybertron. He looked at the place they had come from and started as he recognized the nameless shepherd moon that had tagged along to Cybertron’s red moon eons ago. “Take us down in the region that looks black. We’ll take our chances there.”

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Ranger stared at the frames lying on the hover pallet. They were beautiful. She reached to touch one of the faces, to trace its lines. She stopped a scant plating width above the black plating; she wanted to touch the newly minted frame. She couldn’t, these resting younglings had yet to even be on-lined. They lay in waiting for the power up command to be given. She wanted to give it; she wanted to be the one they looked to first.

Her younglings had died. She wanted them back. She had lost two, Spin-out a quiet, timid mech with a spark of pure tenderness. He acted aloof but he was a good youngling. And, Double-Cross, despite his name he had been so sweet. He had been a rascal, always playing harmless pranks, always beaming those bright, bright smiles at everyone. Her younglings had grown up on the outskirts of the wars, and yet, they were untouched by the evilness, the cruelty.

A desperation grabbed Ranger’s spark, one she could not fight against. With one swift, pensive glance around she ensured, she was alone with the younglings and pulled a pair of data chits from her pocket. These were the memory banks from her younglings. These were their lives. Spin-out and Double-Cross had been terminated while they recharged, they never felt a thing, they had known nothing of the agony or suffering that had taken them from her. For them, she smiled obsessively at the chits in her hands, for them they would wake up as if nothing had happened.

“And nothing will take you from me ever again. I will always be here, my younglings. I’m here. Just take these, and remember.” She reached out with a trembling hand, manically whispering her mantra to bring them back. Optics too bright, processors hovering on insanity she plugged the memory caches into the younglings and initiated the start up sequence. “When you wake I will be here. I will _always_ be here.”

As the younglings’ systems integrated the memory chips, the process slow and arduous, an explosion rocked the neutral camp. “No!” Ranger threw herself over the prone forms and looked to the distant edge of the camp. The Decepticons had found them. She looked to the younglings, _her younglings_ , and activated the hover clamps at the edges of the cargo module they lay in and moved to a distant, hidden crevasse that led into the depths of Cybertron’s underground. “My ones, I will protect you, I will always be here.” Ranger tugged the hover module behind her and vanished into the darkness, her mantra echoing in all directions in a plea of desperation, a creator’s cry.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Jazz panted as he hid, blaster pointed towards the ceiling as he looked around the corner. He was trapped. Decepticon combiner teams surrounded him, their many optics searched the rubble he hid in for his presence. He was once again grateful he was on the small side, otherwise he would be a dead mech. This place had once ben a fortress, but so much damage made it impossible for him to trace the hidden passages he had memorized.

‘Well, mech, what’s the worst that could happen?’ He asked himself as he did the one thing he had promised himself he’d never do. _-:- Hey, mech, how’s stalkin’? -:-_ he sent the query to the one mech he felt he could trust in the universe.

_-:- Veyron? -:-_ Prowl’s voice crackled across the secured comm line and Jazz grinned, he nearly sobbed in relief to hear the familiar voice. He hadn’t even realized he had been scared.

_-:- Sorry, mech, Veyron died nobly after returning to Iacon. -:-_

_-:- Bounce, then, -:-_ Prowl replied crisply, Jazz could practically see the door wings raise higher in the faint note of exasperation.

_-:- Prowl? I need a favor. I’ll owe you big buddy. -:-_

_-:- What do your require? -:-_ Prowl asked immediately, Jazz wanted to tell Prowl to stand at his side, watch his back and never leave. He wanted a partner in this madness. Instead, he spoke lowly, _-:- I’m trapped, I need your processors on this. -:-_

_-:- Send me the details -:-_ Prowl’s voice went from the soft monotone to the cold emotionless drone that told Jazz his temporary teammate had put everything into this. Jazz formed a data packet of his mission details, enemy number, location, the building’s condition and his own injuries. The last bit of data was hard to include. Jazz was almost too proud to admit he was hurt and leaking, almost. For Prowl to help him he had to know everything.

_-:- Follow my directions exactly, and notify me if any situational parameters change. -:-_ Good, old Prowl, Jazz felt relief course through him after the silent, terrifying eternity of waiting. He moved as Prowl directed, kept a constant barrage of data packets going out on alternating frequency channels.

Finally, Jazz reached his destination. The data hub of the old High Council Pavilion stretched out before him. Lights still blinked within the shielded and heavily armored room. Here, long ago, the leaders of Cybertron had decided its fate and had stabbed the entire population in the back as they siphoned off the majority of the energon, then fled.

Jazz hacked the data hub, and condensed the entire contents into a high energy data packet he sent to Prowl. _-:- I’ll come back for this, hang on to it for me, would ya? -:-_

_-:- Of course, Bounce. -:-_ Prowl replied in his unconsciously regal tone.

_-:- Thanks, Stalk. -:-_ Jazz cut the line and fled. He looked back, once the fortress was little more than a small blob in the distance and activated the remote switch. Instantly the massive combiners stalking through the fortress ruins and everything around them vanished in an explosion of light. Jazz ran, and vanished into the darkness. Now, he just had to get patched up and find his way back to Paraxus.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Ratchet looked back to the burning ruins of the shuttle. He sighed and hefted the unconscious patient in his arms. “Perfect slagging timing.” Ratchet grumbled as he walked away into the darkness. He grumbled as he walked letting their near escape from deactivation play through his processors.

_“I’m glad you can fly, I don’t know how to.” Ratchet spoke to the red, black and white patient. The red helm tilted slowly, the movement making Ratchet’s plating prickle along the back of his neck._

_“Help me?” Black hands fell away from the controls. Whatever cognizance the mech had held during the majority of their flight left him in an instant. Ratchet gaped, horror-struck as their shuttle immediately nose-dived towards the dark face of Cybertron. Ratchet reached, grabbed the controls and heaved against them to pull the nose up with all his might. Nothing worked! His optics scrabbled over the blinking lights and glowing toggles looking unseeingly through swiftly scrolling holographic displays and recognized_ nothing.

_The dark ground of Cybertron loomed closely, so near large shapes appeared as blurs and details stood out in stark contrast; the ragged teeth of a broken building reaching to impale them. The serrated girders exposed to the sky reached for them, as if hungry._

_Finally, one screen stood out, one with a red flashing square on it that read ‘Eject?’_

_“Yes damn it!” Ratchet slammed his hand through the holographic display, felt the barest trace of resistance then they were flying through the sky, away from the lethal ground. “Oh, Primus,” Ratchet breathed as the ground once more loomed closely. They were going to be slagged. The instant Ratchet closed his optics, too cowardly to watch his own ending face on, parachutes deployed and pulled them back into the sky._

“And when we finally landed you were unconscious. Now I get to haul your heavy frame across this forsaken landscape. Thank you so much, you nameless brat.” Ratchet huffed gruffly.

_“You’re all data bits and no plating.”_ Wheeljack’s voice echoed in his helm from a long time ago. _“I’m not afraid, roommate. Keep cussing, I’m picking up quite the collection from your vocabulary.”_

Ratchet smiled wistfully if he ever made it back to Autobot headquarters he swore he’d find Wheeljack and make up for every unintended slight he had given his friend and spark-brother – and Huffer. Ratchet paused midstep, was Huffer even online? Was Wheeljack? He thought about everyone he had left behind and wondered if he was the last mech alive with his burden.

“Come on, youngling.” Ratchet huffed as he forced himself to move once more. He strode through the darkness, hugging the edges of ruined buildings with each step. What he really needed was a medbay. The little mech cradled in his arms – little – Ratchet scoffed at himself, his patient was nearly as big as he was, still smallish, but he was burning too much energon carrying his burden.

Decision made as his tanks indicated their low-fuel status Ratchet searched for shelter. He found a ramp leading into a shadowy building. Faint traces of purple light emanated from the crazed and shattered glass that remained of whatever structure it had been. He moved up the ramp, down the lone corridor, and found himself in a sea of carnage. The corpses were old, covered in the ever-present glim that coated Cybertron. These had been younglings. The frames were hastily made, their face plates bore only vague suggestions of features and their plating bore not even a trace of oxidation.

“I hope the monster that did this is long gone.” Ratchet rumbled uneasily. He laid his patient on a double wide work table, ignoring the dusty glim that coated its surface, and searched the piles of the dead for parts. Ratchet hated this part, the unmaking of a mech, it was where spare parts came from too often. His hands pulled apart frame after frame, making a collection of bits that could be used to fix his patient. A logic chip from this frame, neural wires from that one, helm plating from another; each part had to be painstakingly pulled, then set aside. Multiples of each were isolated, each of a slightly different type.

Once the pile of parts and the variety was large enough, Ratchet moved to his patient, opened the helm and began the slow, painstaking task of remaking the scrambled circuits into something that actually functioned. As he worked Ratchet’s temper rose, the youngling had been tortured. This type of damage came from an inquisition, where random wires were crossed and chips burned out until the victim began to spout all knowledge he possessed. The fact that this youngling was still alive was enough to tell Ratchet that his inquisitor had failed. Otherwise, the youngling would have been terminated.

“Well, youngling, without a med bay, or my field kit,” Ratchet missed his military issue medical kit. He wanted his supplies back, the collection of spare parts, the condensed energon rations, and the complete set of tools. When he had been reassigned from Afterburn’s unit everything had been taken from him. His personal tools, his weapons upgrades, all but his most basic armor, and even some of his on-board tools that transformed from his hands – even those had been pulled from his upgrades. He felt weak, “Without a medbay that is all I can do.” He looked to the recharging youngling and sighed. “Time to see what else this carnal house has to offer.”

Ratchet scrounged through the storage unit, pried up loose floor plating, pried vents open, and searched in every corner for energon, tools or weapons. He found a hover berth, that was a boon. Now he wouldn’t have to carry the youngling. He found some questionable energon, but drank it anyways and forced some down his patient’s throat for good measure. But, no weapons were to be found. With one last grumble and a sigh, Ratchet found a relatively clean spot on the floor and lay down to recharge. When he woke they would have move again, and he still had no clue where they were.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Jazz groaned as he forced himself up, out of recharge. He wanted to be done already, but he had that _brilliant_ idea of leaving the data he needed with Prowl up in Paraxus. After the fortress outside of Tarn had been destroyed Jazz had been forced to hoof it across the wastelands, and now the special opps agent trudged through the ruins of Tarn. His journey was going to be very long.

He strode past the ruined crystal senate building and froze. Fresh ped prints were etched into the glim coated ground. The peds were not overly large, but their firm indentation showed the mech to have great mass. Jazz steeled his relays and followed. If any still functioned in the city, it was likely a ‘Con. He moved through the broken ghost city, past silent intersections and ruined, massive courtyards. Finally, he found the remains of a camp, a shape pressed into the glim where something large and rectangular had been set on the ground and another indentation where a mech had lain. He followed the prints out of the camp, and into a massive warehouse.

Jazz froze and plastered himself against the side of the entrance. Memories of his last experience in a warehouse replayed through his processors, and he trembled. Terror of having those five lives resting in his hands, their survival utterly dependent on his decisions still scared him. He calmed himself, and finally moved on. His journey was short. In the first room lay the rectangle. It was a floating berth.

“Primus!” Jazz breathed, “Red Alert, no.” He looked over his friend, one of the few Precious Sparks he had rejoined over the vorns. Red Alert had been captured on a training mission nearly three decavorns ago. The ‘Cons had caught onto his ability to sense their presence and taken away his team’s most useful asset. With Red Alert alive, that made him the unit’s sole survivor.

Fresh welds covered Red’s helm, the ugly tracings of scars indicating long sessions of torture, torture that was likely still being continued. Jazz shuddered and activated the hover lift. He was getting Red out of here now. With silent peds Jazz moved through recessed maintenance corridors to a rear shuttle bay. He grinned, there was one still here. The small craft looked like it had been sitting in the hangar for several megavorns. The technology was archaic. Yet, Jazz couldn’t help the silent prayer that it would still fly.

He loaded Red Alert into the rear, strapped him in and moved to the cockpit. It was time to see if this baby could fly.

 

Ratchet felt his spark drop into his tank. He stood in the room he had left his patient in, only to find him gone. The energon cube he had scrounged up fell to the ground, forgotten. With despair rising in his spark Ratchet raced after the faint, receding ped prints and hoped he had not just lost his patient to a ‘Con.

He moved through doorways he had not seen before, down a corridor that his mind told him had not existed before and found a shuttle bay just in time to see an archaic shuttle launch into the sky. “No!” Ratchet looked around frantically. The bay was empty. He raced through the warehouse, searched every room. There was nothing here.

Defeated he returned to the last place he had seen his patient, collected his energon and moved into the distant wasteland heading ever onward towards the distant city of Iacon. “They could have at least left me my alt mode.” Ratchet groused as he trudged. When he had been reassigned, everything was taken from him. Now all he had were a few tools his hands could still transform into, a small collection of energon in subspace, and a pile of nearly forgotten little metal plates bearing the sigil of the creator mech he had once been nearly half a meagavorn ago.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Prowl patrolled the warehouse district in his alt mode. Sweeping fins off his fenders made him more streamlined in the heavy atmosphere of Paraxus as the shields overhead held in the methane and other rich gasses that made Paraxus so beautiful. Around him, the mechs and femmes of his city waved as he passed. Since the Warehouse incident he had found himself respected, and among the populace, appreciated. It was a new and heady experience, one he enjoyed greatly.

He was now the Enforcer Captain of this district, a promotion he had fought doggedly for. His sensors swept over the rebuilt and improved warehouse complex. After the skirmish (according to Autobot Punch, a rather small one) the entire complex had been demolished and rebuilt. Now it stood beautifully in the starlight, the claw-like landing pads gone, replaced with towers bearing petal-like platforms as if grown from a natural crystal planting. The new complex complemented the city’s beauty, and everyone agreed it was an improvement.

_-:- How’s Stalikin’? -:-_ Bounce’s voice crackled across his comms.

_-:- It goes well. How are you, Bounce? -:-_ Prowl replied.

_-:- Prowl, -:-_ Bounce’s voice grew cold, serious, _-:- I found Twitch, he’s not good. -:-_

_-:- Location? -:-_ Prowl demanded, voice cold, commanding. He selected several communications channels, waiting to use the one that had the closest medical team.

_-:- Behind you. -:-_ Prowl fluidly moved from alt to root mode, plated shifting as he stood and turned, finding a mech he had never laid optics on standing behind him looking half to termination. “Heya mech, long time.”

Prowl cycled his optics, matching the vocal patterns to the ones Veyron had used in private communication during the warehouse assignment nearly fifteen vorns ago. “You are?” he asked slowly, not wanting to use the youngling name he had permitted over secure comms.

“Name’s Jazz, nice digs.” He looked appreciatively over the sparkling city with a whistle.

“And Red Alert?” Prowl demanded, Jazz gaping that Prowl would know their co-creation’s adult designation.

“Over here,” Jazz led the way to a hidden grotto within a crystal garden.

_-:- Enforcer Prowl requesting immediate emergency assistance to these coordinates. -:-_ Prowl followed, leaving an emergency beacon on for the medics to follow. They moved to Red’s hover berth, Prowl flinched as he took in the many weld scars, and numerous metal patches covering the once red helm.

“Boun – Jazz, was there another at that location?” Prowl asked softly.

“Yeah, figured it was a ‘Con. Ah had to go through Tarn, and that’s where ah found ‘im.” Jazz replied, suddenly feeling uneasy about his split second decision.

“I will not give your designation. I will report that a stranger brought a damaged mech from outside of Paraxus. I would suggest you contact your commanders to report a mech’s presence in Tarn. Either the ones responsible for Red’s torture are still out there, or someone else was trying to save him as well.”

Jazz gaped. A rescue attempt by someone else of his co-creation had slipped his mind. “Oh slag, do ya mean I mighta left a poor bot out there?”

Prowl nodded, “I suggest you disappear, this way no repercussions will find you.”

“I can’t say I want to,” Jazz looked at Prowl, “Ah’d like ta get ta know ya again.”

“As would I,” Prowl nodded as the barest trace of a smile quirked his lips, “Jazz, please be safe.”

“You as well, neither of us have the safest job description.” Jazz smirked and left, already feeling bereft of the mech with such astounding processing capacity.

“Before you bounce, I owe you something.” Prowl spoke up before Jazz had taken even two steps. “Here, this is yours.” He placed a small data chit in Jazz’s hand then turned back to Red. When he looked over his shoulder, Jazz was gone.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Ranger watched with needy optics as the younglings – _her younglings!_ Slowly began the start-up process. They had integrated the memory banks of her younglings, their plating changed hue from simple black and white to one burgundy and gray, the other neon venom green. She smiled so brightly as they finally opened their optics.

“You’re awake, I was so worried.” She held one hand to each dear face. “They had to rebuild you, almost completely. I don’t know how they managed to save you.”

Optics, one pair a pale blue, the other a deeper turquoise, looked at her. Ranger’s lines ran cold, her plating tingled along her spinal struts and a spark deep terror gripped her. These were not her younglings. Their optics were cold, insidious and dangerous. The moment lasted but a spark beat before their optics cleared and finally focused.

“Ranger?” Double-Cross’s optics looked at her and brightened. “Ranger! Where are we? Where’s camp?”

The femme’s optics shuttered in grief, her once rich burgundy and dark green plating had gotten tarnished and worn since they had last seen her. “They’re – they’re gone, my sweet ones. The Decepticons attacked, and killed almost everyone.” Everyone but her; they had left her to cradle the cold, gray corpses of her younglings alone.

“Did they hurt you?” Spin-Out finally asked, his pale optics cold and hard in a way that scared Ranger more than the Decepticons did.

“N-no, they just left me alone, I thought you were dead too.” She had searched for a spark signature for orns. She had tended their grayed frames with sips of energon and sheltered them from the acid rains, but her little ones never came back. Then she had collected their memory files, deleted their termination time stamps and left the forlorn frames behind.

“So, did you pick these frames?” DC asked, “Cause, they’re hideous.”

Ranger gasped, her younglings had chosen these colors, begged to be bigger, stronger. “But, you asked –”

“To be bigger, not _heavy_.” Spin-Out cut in, sneering aloofly at the thick armor shielding his frame.

“C-come on, we need to get you some rations,” Ranger spoke brightly, forcing a smile on her trembling lips. How had her darlings become so cold? They had all their memories, but not their sparks. She looked sadly at the creatures she had released and wondered if she could turn them back into her precious sweetlings.

“You want us to drink _that_?” Spin-Out demanded with a sneer, “You got us upgraded frames, we need upgraded energon, or would you like us to have to be rebuilt, again?”

Ranger looked at them with wide optics. “But, this is all the energon we have.” She nearly wailed. It had taken joors to get the rations, to seek the depleting supplies this little conclave in the underground was able to maintain.

“I got this,” DC grinned, only the smile didn’t reach his optics. His optics held no emotion at all. Ranger gulped, moved to speak only to realize he had already vanished.

“We’re not staying here.” Spin-Out proclaimed the instant DC had vanished. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“But, this is our home.” Ranger gasped, she had made a small place for them. It was still serviceable.

“Then stay, we’re going.” He stood without looking back and strode with immense pride through the small squalid hovel Ranger called their home. He snorted elegantly, ‘ _ridiculous_ ’.

“But Double-Cross –”

“Will come when he has suitable rations.” Spin-Out left the border of the hovel, moved on silent peds through the dark underground passage and moved towards a destination he could only sense in his spark. Something called to him in the distance. He moved onward, slowing only as DC caught up.

“Here ya go.” He handed out the rations, sipping the upper midgrade with a grin.

“How did you get it?” Ranger asked nervously.

“It was a reward for stopping a thief,” DC grinned victoriously, though it did little to stave Ranger’s worries.

_DC’s memories told him the mechs in the shallow below him were dangerous, and that he should run. But his spark told him they were easy marks. He slipped down behind a spire of twisted metal and listened._

_“ – I already told you the goods are in the warehouse. Just pick them up from Drywall.” One spoke, DC grinned. He moved away after finding out where the warehouse was and what ‘Drywall’ looked like. He moved on and found a mech disconnecting from the still, lifeless gray frame of a femme._

_“Too bad, I wanted more fun than that.” The mech turned, optics slitted dangerously as he spotted the younger mech watching him. “Want to be next?” The mech leered, interface cables already sliding from their compartments._

_“Nah just thought you looked thirsty,” DC grinned. “I got a share of energon, but it's too much for me to carry. You can take as much as you want if you’ll help me get it.”_

_The mech grinned, “Sure, I can do that.”_

_DC smiled innocently, his memories telling him this mech was going to kill and rape him if he messed up. His spark, however, told him the mech wasn’t so smart. They moved to the warehouse, the mech taking the lead as he swaggered to the door._

_“Who are you?” The mech that fit Drywall’s description demanded as the other approach._

_“Slicer. I’m here on orders from Downspiral. He said he wants the goods.” Slicer repeated what DC had overheard._

_“How much does he want this time?” Drywall asked with a bored sigh._

_“Everything,” Slicer replied, his arm transformed into a thick blade and he stabbed Drywall through the spark with a cackle. The warehouse was open before them, piles of energon of all grades reached to the ceiling. “Now, punk, it's your turn!”_

_DC looked up, optics wide as Slicer’s blade slammed him into a wall. DC screamed and slid down the blank metal to fall in a heap._

_Behind them voices raised, making Slicer panic. The mech fled, leaving DC alone on the floor._

_“Get him!” Downspiral’s voice thundered, as hands picked up DC._

_“Please! Don’t hurt me!” DC pleaded as he trembled, his entire frame vibrating as he dangled from the taller mech’s hand._

_“What are you doing here?” Downspiral snarled._

_“That mech –” DC keened brokenly, “I s-saw him k-k-kill a femme. He did so-something terrible to her.” His vocals hitched, optics wide and shimmering too brightly, “I came after him to – I wanted to catch him after what he’d done.”_

_Downspiral sighed, “You’re just a youngling, despite your size.” He set DC down, “Where are your creators?”_

_“I only have Ranger and my brother. We’ve been traveling looking for energon. I thought, I could stop the bad mech and turn him in for a ration. We won’t take much.”_

_Downspiral roared a laugh, “A ration, he says, for three mechs! Ha, youngling, you tried to do right. And that’s something hard to come by. Take these, you tried. That’s all that matters.”_

_DC’s optics widened hugely, “Sir, you mean it?_ Six whole rations? _”_

_Downspiral laughed again, “Yes, youngling. It’s not much, but it will help your family get where they’re going.”_

_“Thank you!” DC called over his shoulder as he ran away with a smile._

“The warehouse keeper said it was for trying to do the right thing.” He grinned at Ranger, his optics now brighter, more like they had been. She smiled back proudly.

“He’s right, you know. As long as you do right by others, even if you can’t succeed, the attempt is all that matters.” Ranger sighed, maybe she was expecting too much of her younglings. It must be hard recalibrating to new frames. The trudged onward, each sipping their ration in silence. It didn’t matter where they went, Ranger decided, as long as they were together.

*** *** *** ***

 

Ratchet knew he was going to die out here. The wasteland went on forever. Sixteen orns of walking, and the distant, dark horizon never changed. He held on to his last cube, the final tenth of what he had collected in the ruined city he had lost his patient in. His tanks were empty, his processors hazy, he’d have to drink his last cube soon, or die for lack of energon with a cube still in one hand.

Ratchet almost drank, almost. He sighed and sealed the cube. He’d drink when he stopped, whenever that was. That had been his agreement with himself for the last three orns. His legs kept moving, so tired he wondered if he’d die and keep walking, his legs programed to never cease long after he’d gone.

Overhead the stars wheeled across the sky, changing from the brilliant stars of the on-cycle to the dim, scattered stars of the down-cycle. He wanted to stop, to rest. He was so tired. Ratchet scanned the flat horizon looking for a stub of a building, a buckle of ruined plating, yet nothing appeared. Was this Unicron’s Pit? To walk unending after losing so many patients? He continued to walk, each step more halting than the last. Ratchet trudged on, seeking something, _anything_ that was not more of the flat, lifeless glim coated metal.

A thought stuck in Ratchet’s processors making him give a desperate giggle. Cybertron would become a desert planet whose shifting sands was the dried mechblood of all the idiot that had once dwelt there and killed themselves in a neverending war. He cackled, his voice filled with a kind of desperate insanity. Slowly the hysteria abated and Ratchet looked up from his peds in surprise. He’d stopped! He popped open the final cube and drank deeply. He smiled around the edge of the cube, ecstatic to finally take in more fuel.

Only, when the energon hit his tanks it felt like he had only taken in vapor. Ratchet hung his helm and cursed roundly. Oh, yes those many things that had been taken from him had stolen any advantage he might have had out here, and to top if off the _one_ thing they could have taken – his expanded on-board energon storage tanks – had been left in place. Now the tanks eh had once used to provide in-field transfusions to keep other bots alive were going to be the death of him.

Worn out, tired and wanting nothing more than to recharge for an eternity, Ratchet laid on the ground and instantly fell into unconscious slumber.

 

_Creator. Bright optics looked up at 3:1:0, a sea of faces ranging from the tiny Precious Sparks to the few Guardians he had constructed. His spark clenched in agony. Were they all dead too? He looked around him, expecting the fiery smelter Unicron's Pit – but found only laughing younglings._

_“Creator?” Two faces looked up at him, their bright blue optics looked at him happily, “When will Carrier return?”_

_Carrier? Ratchet looked at the youngsters, he didn’t know them. A figure stepped from Ratchet’s frame, a mech of indigo and gray, “She will be home soon, my heirs. Come, we will wait for her upon the hill.” The figures walked away from the wasteland and into a glowing, golden sunset. A distant star had come close enough to grace Cybertron with its light. They stood on a hill, “Do you remember what this hill is called, my mechlings?” The figure that was not Ratchet asked._

_“It is the shoulder guard of Primus. We stand upon his shoulder to keep watch over his sleeping frame.” One of the two younglings replied._

_“Teacher’s pet.” The other sneered._

_“Enough –”_

“Enough!” A bellow pulled Ratchet out of his slumber, the distant dream or recollection of an impossible past faded leaving him jittery and disturbed.

“Who?” Ratchet looked around, optics shuttering and unshuttering as he desperately tried to focus.

“Ha, look at that, boss, this one’s still kickin’.” A sinister voice above Ratchet’s helm drawled.

His optics darted up, took in the dark figure leering at him from the prow of a hover ship. Beside the dark shadow, nearly as black as Cybertron had become, crouched a second figure of blue. Ratchet stared, optics shining in fear. “Decepticons!” He gasped and scrabbled away, hands and peds slipping in the thick glim coating the planet’s native metal.

“Calm down stranger,” A third figure moved in from the shadows, “I’m Cryotek, Captain of the Blue Deployer. These two thugs are my crew members, Blue Bacchus, and Black Shadow. They wear the haze and join if the price is right. Otherwise, we’re simple merchants.” Cryotek grinned and Ratchet’s hackles raised.

“Who are you, friend? This is no place to make camp. Anyone with their lamps off could sneak up on you.” Although Crotek’s voice was pitched to sound kind, Ratchet could hear the cold rasp of the mech’s hands rubbing together in glee.

“I’m,” Ratchet paused, did he dare? He looked at the three he’d been introduced to, then to the other two he could see in the darkness and wondered how many others were hiding. “I’m Ratchet.”

“The medic?” A green mech stepped forward, this one towering over his comrades. “Good.” The last was said with an almost purr that made Ratchet tense. “Word is, some mechs are offerin’ good money for info on your location.”

“And how about my safe return to Iacon?” Ratchet countered, he had _decavorns_ of pay chits stored in subspace. He just needed to offer enough to get himself home without getting slagged.

“Ah ha, mechs, our friend is willing to make a deal.” Cryotek rubbed his hands together with a sly grin. “How much do you think your worth?”

“I’m a run down old medic past my prime. You tell me.” Ratchet snarled, he felt old and hollow by now.

“Well, now, that’s not what several key players are claiming. Now, why do you think several key players in this war are wanting you alive?” One of the mechs asked.

“And who would that be? An old mini-bot medic? Or a youngster playing at being general?” Ratchet asked caustically. His optics dim and hopeless.

“Huh, you really don’t know?” Cryotek asked with a smirk. “Alright then, you get yourself a ride. I’m interested to see how you react to seeing your benefactors.” The mech turned towards his crew, “Mechs, load up!”

Ratchet reluctantly followed them into the main cabin of their ship. He wanted to gag. Grey frames lay on every available surface. Some were fresh off the field, others had already been stripped of their parts. He was in a metal merchant’s ship, a ship that sells the dead.

“Hey now, maybe you could answer me a question,” Cryotek clapped his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, making the medic start. “How does a perfectly good frame come to be without its neural cables? Rather odd isn’t?”

“Not really,” Ratchet replied, “I had a patient, and I needed the parts. Until some of your buddies came and stole him.”

“Bud- oh, you mean some ‘Cons took a patient of yours? What were you doing way out here?”

“Escaping.” Ratchet replied bluntly and sat on an empty stool with a groan.

“Hmm, you pulled out the cabling, and yet no other parts were damaged. I might be persuaded to waive my finder’s fee if you take care of our friends here. You’re not the only medic needing parts, friend.”

“And you’re just providing a good deed.” Ratchet huffed with a small snarl. He was too tired to really fight, too tired to argue. He turned to the first frame and began the tedious task of the unmaking.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Prowl hovered near Red Alert’s berth. He remembered the orn the feisty red mech had come to Paraxus City as a trainee security operative. So much of the security measures the city boasted had been outdated, at every step, Red had bemoaned the impending Decepticon intrusion.

_“Too late.” Prowl spoke flatly, “They infiltrated our main warehouse district only a few orns ago. That is why you are here. Somehow they infiltrated our defenses.”_

_“You are not a commander.” Red spoke nervously, optics casting for the mech in charge._

_“No, I am the tactician you were sent to speak with.” Prowl gestured to the data pad Red held. They looked at each other, em fields reaching out and recoiling before embracing slightly. The outer fields of energy barely touching told them they were who the other had sought._

_-:- Twitch?-:- Prowl asked via comms, optics steady despite the desperate hope that filled his lines._

_-:- Stalk! -:- Red kept his face on the nervous side of impassive, “I see, Prowl was it? Very well, you will debrief me on the occurrences within the warehouse. Then I will need to speak with the others involved”_

_Prowl nodded, his surprise at finding another of the lost Precious Sparks so shortly after finding the disguised Bounce. “All will oblige your request, save Commander Veyron. He was recalled –” Prowl paused at Red’s upraised hand._

_“His statement has already been processed.” Red gestured towards the enforcer stations’ records room. “Please guide me through what went on. I will then be able to analyze the weaknesses within your systems.” They moved into the room and went through their official motions._

Red twitched in his recharge, Prowl found himself holding his intakes. Was Red awakening?

“Do not get your hopes up. Fixit is positive Red Alert’s injuries are bad enough to warrant several joors in stasis. Whoever tortured him knew what they were doing. His pain was great.” Smokescreen spoke as he stepped into the room. The psychologist of the enforcers had been keeping close tabs on Red Alert with the medic Fixit, both monitoring his mental and physical state as he healed. “Fortunately, someone else was mending him, giving him the care he needed. If it had waited much longer, Fixit believes Red Alert would have been lost to us.”

“And whoever that was, is likely terminated by now. Bounce found Red Alert in the wastes. He saw ped prints.”

“I read the report,” Smokescreen sighed, “Prowl, when Red Alert is stable, I will be transferring to the Autobots. I will follow Red and keep track of him. We may not meet again for a long time afterward.”

“I know,” Prowl nodded, “The day I signed on I told the commanders I would remain with the enforcers until war coming to Paraxus was eminent. Even after the warehouse, war has only a thirty percent probability of coming here. I will remain until there is no other recourse.”

Smokescreen smiled, “Why am I not surprised? You always did want to save the universe.”

“No, when we were last together I only wanted to save our family.”

“To younglings that small, their family is their universe,” Smokescreen replied solemnly, wishing he could be the co-creation he wanted to be to Prowl and Red Alert. Yet, they didn’t dare. Before the warehouse incident, the commanders had known that Prowl was a Precious Spark. Afterward, not a one seemed to remember.

For now, the Precious Sparks were no more than a broken memory.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

“Boss, the mech’s asleep.” Blue Bacchus moved to the bridge. The medic lay recharging in the cargo bay with the gray frames. It was a beautiful dichotomy, a sole living mech sleeping with the dead. Blue Bacchus’ fingers itched to turn the white mech gray, to watch the moment of passing.

“Good, he won’t know what hit him when he wakes,” Cryotek grinned evilly. They moved towards the ruins of a former Autobot stronghold. The base had held strong in the early parts of the war, now it was a Decepticon training base.

“I see our contacts.” Black Shadow called out, pointing towards a low crest of warped metal forming a twisted rise. Three figures stood in the darkness, one smaller, one a flier and a third more massive than either who bristled with weapons and spiked armor.

“So strange, to see a Seeker with grounders.” Blue Bacchus chuckled, he had little room to talk. His heilo mode and Black Shadow’s seeker mode made them stand out among the grounders of their crew, but few other Seeker’s shared their pragmatism for making credits off the war.

“Where’s our credits?” Cryoteck demanded as he stepped off his hover ship, letting the bow scrape against the hill slightly as it docked.

“Where’s the medic?” The closest mech demanded, red optics from the black face shimmered dangerously with his demand.

“Right here, recharging like a new spark.” Cryotek gestured to the medic cradled in a green mech’s arms.

“Lay him down.” The black and white demanded fiercely.

“Sure, sure, Barricade. Are you positive you three have my credits?”

“Positive,” The other grounder, rumbled dangerously as he tossed a pay chit at Cryotek’s peds. “Now hand him over.”

“Sorry, friends,” Cryotek smile winningly, “the medic is useful I couldn’t part with him for any less than triple the price.”

“I don’t think so,” Skywarp spoke behind the pirate as his after image wavered standing between Sixshot and Barricade. “The medic is ours.”

“And so are your lives,” Sixshot warned as he transformed into a massive battle cat and leaped onto the boat. Massive talons ripped into the opportunistic metal dealers, the boat racing backward to escape and forcing Sixshot to leave his prey. He jumped into the air, took on his heilo mode and returned to Barricade’s side then folded down into his tank mode. Several missiles fired on the pirate ship, but not even Sixshot could destroy it so easily.

“Let them go.” Barricade rumbled. He looked down on Ratchet, sensing in the unconscious mech the spark resonance of their creator. “He can’t know about us. He can’t know we’re Cons. Find an empty flitter, get him on it and send it towards the Elites’ Tower. The inner grid still supports an Elite sanctuary. He will be safe there.”

“Why do we care?” Sixshot asked, “He left us.”

“You don’t remember?” Skywarp asked softly, optics downcast. “Circle Glide took him away, put him in the closet he slept in. Twitch threw a fit, and Target followed him just to shut him up. Bounce and Slip got the rest of us to follow. We hid in a hole in the floor Glide kept credits in.”

“I remember waking up there, but I don’t remember going in.” Sixshot sighed. “I have a flitter we can send the medic off in.” None of them were willing to use their creator’s current designation, each afraid that to speak it would wake the resting mech.

Barricade wanted to call out to 3:1:0 in this new form, to see their creator wake up and recognize them. But, they were Cons, deep in Con territory. Sixshot moved to pick up Ratchet, until Skywarp stopped him. “If we send him in a flitter, he could get shot down. I’ll take him to the outskirts.”

“When do you go for trine selection?” Sixshot asked softly before Skywarp could vanish.

“Next orn. No matter who I go with I will have to submit to trine recognition conditioning.” He grimaced, “There is only enough slots for one full trine, and I’m not strong enough to lead.” He looked to his companions one last time, then gathered Ratchet in his arms and vanished.

“When the trine leaders are finished with him, Skywarp will not be the same.” Sixshot rumbled.

“I know,” Barricade turned to face the distant lights of the training base, “After next orn none of us will.” Tomorrow they were to receive their first assignments as elite warrior Decepticons. They had spent decavorns in training, taking training missions and learning to be the best. Now it was time to prove it.


	8. Shapes Forming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time takes its toll on everyone. Prowl is no exception to this. Pain is a universal experience, will it break a spark, or make it stronger?

“Sir, Security Chief Lockdown wants to speak with you.” The top aide to the Enforcer Chief spoke at Prowl's side.

“Understood,” Prowl stood from his desk and turned with clipped precision towards the long shining hall of Command. He marched smartly from his private office, his frame familiar to every enforcer in the district. Passing heavily armed assault units and lightly armored civilian response units, they all alike greeted him warmly. Every mech of the Paraxus Enforcers knew Prowl, either personally or by reputation. He had earned his place.

Everyone knew the stories of the Warehouse incident. Prowl was the last mech alive who had endured the long down-shift in the Pits. Firebolt had passed quietly at home after retiring. The two heavy infiltrators had terminated quelling a revolt some two decavorns ago, and their scout had given her life to retrieve information that led to the largest arrest of weapons dealers in Paraxan history.

Prowl had led each effort and had grown increasingly silent with each loss. Now, he only spoke when necessary. Some believed his spark had become cold bits of space ice. Usually, such rumors came from the new recruits who didn’t like his aloof manner.  Those rumors only lasted the first joor. After a joor of serving with a squad either the recruits straightened out, or they scrubbed.

The many office mechs and femmes all smiled to see the young security mech passing through. Prowl never came by often enough. Despite having never shown any emotions in his time with the enforcers everymech knew he was honest, and just. It was a reputation he had won over time, and with it the loyalty of his assigned unit.

Once in the Command Hall, he moved swiftly to Lockdown's office. “You summoned for me, Sir?” Prowl asked smoothly, his Praxan build strong with elegant door wings held rigid rising towards the ceiling.

“Prowl, you have been one of our best security bots over these past decavorns. Your tactics and logistics records have proven repeatedly that you are a capable unit commander and tactician. However this,” Lockdown tossed a datapad in front of Prowl, “Came in today without warning. Do you have anything to say?”

Prowl picked up the datapad, reading over the transfer request into Autobot boot camp. “Lockdown, I notified you on my first orn. I would only stay in Praxus until war was eminent. There is a 99.98 percent chance of war coming here within the decavorn. I want to join the Autobots and do anything I can to keep that from happening.

“Sentinel Prime has put out a request for experienced tactics annalists. I believe that fits my functional parameters.” Prowl looked to his unit commander with steady, serious optics. “I have no true family unit. What I have assembled has been others like me who have had nothing from the beginning. I want to steer the war away from them for as long as possible, and save Paraxus from the fate that has befallen so many other cities.

“Under current command conditions this war will engulf Paraxus within ten vorns. I have a seventy-eight-point-three percent chance of ensuring that time line is lengthened by at least a decavorn. By then, hopefully a peace negotiation will be underway.”

Lockdown huffed a sad chuckle, “It would be my best officer who wants to save the world. Very well, I know how much that rag tag family unit you have assembled means to you. I give you leave with my blessings. Tell Leaflet and Cinder I said hello for me, will you?”

Prowl smiled a faint, secret smile, his advanced battle computer relied so heavily on hard facts that too many emotions could lock him up. He had, over the vorns, learned to sacrifice most of his emotional protocols to function with utmost efficiency, yet he still felt strongly for his family unit of twelve orphans like him he had collected over the passing vorns, and the few hidden Precious Sparks scatterd throughout the Autobot forces. “I will.” Prowl promised and left, it was time to change the war.

 

*** *** ***

 

Jazz opened up his terminal in Special Opps. The small base was hidden in the basement one of the few remaining energon pubs adjacent to a pleasure bot brothel. The neighborhood was filthy, seedy and violent; just what a mech needed to unwind after a long mission of putting his life on the line.

This orn, though, Jazz was not happy. Special Opps had changed over the decavorns. Too many were being included that were unstable, too violent and unpredictable. Despite his falling out with Punch, they still kept in touch, and Black Opps was even worse.

_“Jazz, what special operations needs is a new commander. They need someone smart enough to lead, cold enough to do what is needed, and still mech enough to care. You could be that mech, Jazz. Apply for officer training, get lieutenant rank, and lead your troops.”_

Jazz remembered Punch’s words from vorns ago. Punch had been trying to push him into officer training since before he had taken on the name Veyron to infiltrate the Paraxan enforcers. Jazz let a ghost of a smile tug at his features, that had been how he had met Prowl. The enforcer had captured Jazz’s attention from their first moment together. Who else could analyze data at such rates without plugging into an accessory module? Not even Soundwave, Shockwave or any of Megatron’s best could accomplish what Prowl could do.

The terminal finally loaded, scrolling a list of messages Jazz had not been able to receive while on mission. He scanned through the many inquiries and offers of intel for a cost from his many contacts. Most could wait. Some, were traps, and poorly laid ones. “Hold up there,” Jazz stopped the rapidly moving lines of text to open one message that caught his attention.

_A beastmech stalks a twitching retro-rat._

_Will it be caught before it can bounce?_

Jazz grinned hugely, _success!_ Prowl was joining the autobots. He read the short message over again and chuckled noiselessly to himself. ‘This is Prowl. I will be joining Red Alert in the Autobots. Will you be there Jazz?’ The operative could almost hear Prowl’s clipped voice speaking in his processors.

‘Yes, I will be there, and so will a few others. I found most of our lost co-creations. You will meet them there.’ Jazz thought how he would send his reply.

_Don’t twitch, or the target will give the beastmech the slip._

_It must charge full steam and catch the retro-rat mid-bounce._

Yes, Jazz smiled in his silent office, he had found Twitch, Steam, Slip and Target; made his connections as each joined the Autobots. Now Prowl – Stalk was joining as well. They only had three more to find, the last three Precious Sparks. Somehow Jazz had a sinking suspicion at least one of them had joined the ‘Con’s. Steam had mentioned seeing a flyer at the same time he had sensed Shifter’s presence some time ago when a neutral medic had been left in the outskirts of the wastes leading to the Elites’ Tower. Steam had come from that shining sanctuary after serving as its fire chief for many decavorns, but like with every other great city, it finally fell and Steam joined the Autobot fold for revenge.

‘If Shifter is a ‘Con I hope Boom and Hunt are with him, and I hope they defect soon. Otherwise –’ Jazz cut his thoughts off. The alternative was not something he wanted to think about. The alternative was facing them in battle and knowing they were killing their own co-creations.

Jazz nodded to himself and submitted his transfer request to officer training school. It was time to learn some new tricks.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Ratchet looked over the once proud ruins of Vos. The city of fliers once had been a shining beacon in Cybertron’s eternal night sky. Now, it lay in ruins on the outskirts of the acid wastes, reduced to a massive pile of crumpled metal with its rocky heart scattered across the face of Cybertron. Broken remanants of high towers and lofty spires sparkled like broken spinal columns in the starlight. The city had fallen not so long ago after Starscream became Air Commander.

The story had spread across Cybertron even in the Elites Tower, Ratchet had awoken in after losing his patient and being recovered by Cryotek, all knew the tale. Megatron had won the Air Commander of Vos to be his second in command, and to ensure the flyer’s loyalty Megatron brought Vos down.

_“I could come with you.” A familiar voice offered gently at Ratchet’s side, drawing the medic’s attention to his old friend, the first one he could ever remember making …_

_“And miss all the fun of becoming the first ground-based Chief Engineer of Vos Science Division?_

_“Heh, you would be correct … Except … my acceptance was overturned … Starscream beat my entrance project, I was there when he demonstrated the null technology device … a beam energy tool …_

With a sigh Ratchet scoured through the wreckage as he pushed away his memories. As usual, no one was left alive in the wreckage. Dodecahex, Kalis, Tyrest; the list went on. Since waking up in the Elites Tower Ratchet had refitted himself with the tools and gear he had needed, obtained an alt-mode and had traveled to save the victims of Megatron’s unconscionable crimes. And, each time Ratchet was too late.

“Why am I never in the right place at the right time?” Ratchet asked the glim laden air as he looked up to the dim down-cycle stars. There was no answer, save a glittering light of the research platform Jack had helped design in he academy. “Thank you, my brother. I will head to Iacon, and find you. Maybe you were right all this time. Maybe my place was with the Autobots, by your side.” Ratchet nodded, his path set he turned from the sad remains of Vos and the broken, feeble, skeletal frames of its citizens reduced to greyed plating and dust.

Ratchet sighed and smirked up at the space platform, “You would come up with this idea when I’m on the opposite side of Cybertron from you. I could have been there in two orns from the Tower. Now I have to go through the Acid Wastes, and if I’m lucky enough to survive that, I might survive Dead End. Thank you Wheeljack, hold on, I’m coming.” He turned from the distant station and the slowly wheeling stars overhead. It was time to roll on.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Double-Cross smiled wickedly, the credits he had just gotten for the stolen rare electro-metals was quite enough to make his head spin. With his careful work from the past few decavorns in place he now had a network of spies and traders that would make him a fortune in the ever-escalating violence. Some would call it war profiteering, but he preferred to call it – prudent planning.

DC looked over the small community he called home. Here, ever in the shadow of the Tower the worst of Cybertrons get conglomerated to feed off the effluent of the wealthy Elites. The stupid femme, Ranger, had brought them here soon after they had recovered from the Decepticon attack that had knocked them out and forced them to be rebuilt. Double-Cross sneered, every word Ranger had ever told them felt like a lie. Memories from _before_ told him here optics were afraid of them, of Spinout and him.

He remembered Ranger fondly when they had lived in the neutral camps traveling from shelter to shelter scraping by on whatever energon they could beg, borrow or steal. But, the attack had changed her, she was obsessed with them, with how they should have been.

_“DC, come with me,” Ranger offered with her scared optics and bright smile. DC wasn’t fooled, she was afraid of her younglings, but him especially. “We need to get more energon,” She smiled fondly at their small hovel, “And Spins is painting.”_

_“Sure,” DC shrugged with an innocent smile, the naïve were so easy to beguile. They moved to the outskirts of the Tower, looking though the wastes that poured out like a thick, revolting sludge twice an orn. Energon poured from the Towers in a deluge, wastes from what the Elites thought was beneth them._

_“I’ll check the boxes.” DC offered, turning to check the many stacks of crated goods the Elites tossed like so many empty cubes. Only DC never looked in the boxes._

_“You’re late, hm?” A blue and grey mech snarled as DC appeared._

_“I brought what you came for.” DC purred, “You wanted the survivor, and I have her.” DC held his hand out, and nodded as a pay chit was placed there._

_“And the other thing?” The mech demanded harshly._

_“It will be along shortly, Axor.” DC walked away, a smile spreading across his features as Ranger’s cry rang out. He came around from the crates, several valuable items in sub-space and some tossed out paints he could offer to Spinout._

_“Ranger!” DC cried out with a sob, from the side several mechs approached at a run._

_“Double-Cross?” One asked as he took in the keening mech leaning over the broken remains of a headless femme._

_“I t-told you I s-saw Axor nearby. He k-killed Ranger.” DC gulped then looked up with all the terror and innocence he could muster. “If he found her, he might go after Spins!” DC shuddered, real terror, terror so deep and unending that it made his spark feel like it had ceased to pulse. He looked up, “Axor can’t get my brother!!”_

DC smiled at the memory. Axor had gotten away, but his injuries had forced him to seek sanctuary off planet. The large sum of credits DC had been given for the information on the bounty hunter hadn’t hurt either.

“Spinout! Got ya a present.” The brilliant burgundy and grey mech strode into his brother’s studio; admiringly he looked over the many paintings and sculptures that filled the massive space. Double-Cross would never betray his brother, but every time he came in here his fingers itched to sell the rare commodity items.

“What is it this time?” He heard the exquisitely bored tones of his brother and grinned again. They had been damaged badly enough to be rebuilt in the attack, their voices had even changed, but their sparks hadn’t, not really.

“Rare metal paints.” The burgundy mech smiled at the gleaming neon venom green mech and held up the jars of chemicals so caustic that they could only be used on rare crystal backing to burn through any surface they held.

“Traceable?” Spinout asked boredly from where he stood at his newest design, optics never leaving his work.

“Nope, you don’t doubt your own brother do you, _Brother_?” There was a hint of a challenge, and a teasing threat that would never be acted upon. Spinout was gentle, kind – and very obsessive over the beauty of his projects.

“I never doubt you, DC. I only doubt everything else about you.” The response was flat, calm and insulting to the core. While they had never been allowed access to the Elites, Spinout had learned to emulate them perfectly. The act of being like Elites had allowed the very mechs’ personal assistants to come down to their level and broker for the fine art Spinout produced. The art, the sculptures fed into the Elites never ending, nearly addictive _need_ to spend every credit, every drop of energon in search for the remaining beauty left in Cybertron.

“Good. I have a new venture, one with no required commodity storage. I might be gone awhile again.” DC looked his brother over, finally getting a response.

“Be careful?” The simple words brought the rich, pale blue optics to finally face DC, and again the burgundy mech felt himself drown in those glowing depths.

“Of course, have I ever lied to you?” DC asked as he held his brother close to him, their chassis touching as he studied the exquisite features of Spinout. The green mech only shook his head, fingers trembling at their closeness. With a grin Double-Cross let his brother go with another quick hug, silently thankful his brother knew so little of him outside these walls.

Spinout was a prodigy in painting, he was cultured, classy and loyal to a fault to Double-Cross. Yet to DC, he was an enticing opportunity. Spin’s features were beyond beautiful; they were the epitome of glorious. He would be the most highly priced pleasure bot, if DC could only get him to go to some of his sales. He could rent out his brother’s services for the highest bidder. It was tempting, so very tempting.

Yet, the artworks that Spin created, and allowed DC to sell for him were even more profitable. Especially as Spin never had to pay for supplies. DC always provided for his beloved brother. The walking credit factory was luscious to the optics, defiant in his strangely detached way, and oh, so valuable. It also helped that when he became overly angered; Spin became a menacing, raging psychopath. It had only happened a couple of times, but DC knew that if he could just harness that lusting rage, he would be able to sponsor the most powerful – and lucrative – fighter in the Rings.

Which, DC brought his plotting mind back from his wanderings, was his destination this night. The Rings never stayed put. They had a few nights in different places around Cybertron, but nothing permanent. DC finally had his invite to watch – to bet. He knew the stakes and had put in as much influence on the outcomes as he knew he could get away with. Tonight would be easy credits.

“Welcome, Double-Cross.” A slimy voice spoke as he passed the entrance. Spying his informant, Dealout, he grinned easily, watching his back for the mech’s treachery.

“Greetings, nice place.” DC nodded his appreciation for the quick fix of an old wasted warehouse. “I brought a gift.” He handed a small parcel to the other mech, each knowing that it contained the twenty thousand credit down payment.

“Your generosity is most appreciated.” Dealout replied with a cold smile. “Follw me, you can place your bets over here.”

The night had been lucrative, very lucrative. Spinout grinned as he counted his winnings. While placing bets on the winning teams with the house, he had also been betting against the losing teams with other high rollers. He was new, young, and very, very cocky. It was all a ruse. He had won most, lost enough not to bring undue attention to himself and earned a decent reputation for recognizing excellent fighters.

Yet one fighter had stumped him, one fighter who stood alone against teams of two or more had made him lose a bet he had not wanted to lose. The fighter named Sunstreaker. The mech had risen rapidly in the free open matches; apparently it was his first night. From the reaction of the crowd he was also an instant success. He had climbed three tiers in the Rings’ fighting structure in a single night. Something only a small handful of mechs had done before, and never alone.

When the free matches had finished the golden fighter had vanished leaving DC to stew over the unintended loss. He hadn’t been in a good mood when he had finally returned to his brother’s studio later, when most mechs were in recharge and few manned the lonely hours between duty cycles. Yet, the moment he walked into the room he felt his brother overwhelmingly through their bond, who felt strangely sated.

Double-Cross twitched uneasily, it was the deep-seated satiation that came from a hard overload with a fine femme. DC had had his share of pleasure slaves, taken whenever he could get them, usually in the narrow span of time between selling them as untouched and handing them over.

Spinout, however, DC had been sheltering him, protecting him from the coldness that can creep into a spark after too many nights with nameless lovers. He didn’t want his brother to feel cold inside like he did. DC wanted Spinout to find _the one_. It was something the green mech had mentioned their first orn without Ranger.

_“_ _I want to fall in love.”_

The memory was bittersweet, because right then, DC had sworn to protect his brother from everything until they could find him his true love.

“Spins?” DC called, finally spotting the green mech in a distant corner on a rarely used couch.

“It’s finished.” DC paused, finally noting the free standing painting held in a nearly invisible backing. It looked like the starry heavens shimmering silver of a chemical he could not identify, bursts of pale pink and deeper purple surrounded the center making it seem that a living nova had been captured by Spin’s styli.

“Spin, it’s amazing.” And suddenly the tension of his brother’s strange emotions unwound, this was worthy of such pride and feeling of completion. Unperturbed, DC sat with his brother, wondering who Sunstreaker really was. This would be their first of many nights with DC free from his more risky ventures. With the most dangerous ones off the table DC could finally relax.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

“You are troubled, my friend.” Perceptor spoke in his slightly haughty voice. Wheeljack nodded mutely. “It is your friend Ratchet, is it not, that weighs upon your processors?”

“Perceptor, the last time I saw Ratchet was when he slammed his door on me before I joined the Autobots. The next time I heard anything about him was when I found out I had missed him by _two groons_. For the first time in sixteen vorns Ratchet and I had been in the same place and _I missed him_. There’s been no word of him since. I kept hearing rumors, for a while.

“Now, though, how do I even know if he’s alive?” Jack looked up at Perceptor with miserable optics.

“Despite how long it may seem you two have only been separated for – ”

“I know, Percy.” Jack interrupted, “Its been less than half of one one-thousandth of a megavorn.” He pointed out the view screen towards the dark world below, “Down there a decavorn is a lifetime. Up here we still count the hecto- and kilovorns.” He looked to the red science bot with an intense gaze, “Have you ever lived just one orn, and felt that it could be your last? Down there, down where my spark-brother is lost in that darkness, he lives each orn, each astrosecond, as if it were his last. While I’m up here safe, where I can loose myself in the lab for six decavorns and not notice the time passing.”

“Do not feel bad. We are striving to end this war.” Perceptor tried to cheer up Jack. “Our research is geared to out thinking the Cons. Remember, our discoveries have halted six attempts at total planetary domination.

“Yes, but will we succeed?”

 

*** *** *** ***

 

 “Greetings Sunstreaker.” The infamous golden mech looked up to Awl, finding the terrible mech to be vile. The gladiator recruiter grinned with broken denta and a crooked smile.

“Will my competition be worthy of my time?” Sunstreaker asked haughtily. His plating was crawling from being so close to the other filthy mech.

Sunstreaker had been fighting off and on in the Rings for the last vorn, each time leaving with subspace canisters filled with energon of various states of processing. From retched high grade and midgrade pounded from his opponents intakes, to the silvery grey processed energon that left the main feed lines in their frames, he collected all he could, getting a strangely addicting high as he painted with the fluids taken as trophies from his opponents.

This time he was entering the sixth ring, the first one where killing was permissible. Sunstreaker grinned his chilling, terribly beautiful smile. This time he would get the pure silver-blue energon that bled from a spark chamber. Tonight’s work would be his first of many masterpieces – both in and out of the ring.

The fights had been satisfying, one or two actually posing a challenge to him. He grinned as he slipped down dark alleys and back roads until he could finally find a safe location to transform back into Spinout. Oh, he had figured his brother’s game out long ago. DC kept Spin safe, kept him contained to make him his highest paying commodities – the artwork. Yet, overtime the art had lost its hold over him. No longer could he idly sit or stand and paint all orn. It had become tedious, beneath him.

Then, Dealout and Awl’s roustabouts had approached him. The thugs had tried desperately to convince the beautiful, naive Spinout to come to the Rings, to take a chance in battle. And he had, as Sunstreaker. No one knew the mech, yet he had brought the data chit that granted him entrance. It was written off that one of their propositioned death baits had passed the chit on to someone who could actually fight. The new fighter was accepted, and his skill shone instantly.

Yet despite how much Spinout enjoyed the fights, the thrill of spilt energon and danger, he felt something hold him back. Some dim part of himself kept him from putting everything into the fights, and finally noticing DC in the stands after a full vorn of fighting, he knew why. He knew if DC saw him in full battle mode the ruse would be up.

“That burgundy roller, up near the top, who’s he?” Sunstreaker asked after the night’s matches of Awl.

“Double-Cross, he’s a high roller, some scrappy little street dealer who’s gotten lucky a time or two. Why?” the taller orange mech asked suspiciously of the golden fighter who was actually showing promise, despite how pathetic most of his matches were. The scraplet had some base programming, but no training, and soon the lack would stand out.

“His paint job is painful to look at, can you ban him?” Sunstreaker asked flatly, allowing the other mech to become once more beneath his notice. Only, Awl now had noticed both of them, and saw something – beautiful. The Ring mech smiled sinisterly, knowing that their newest celebrity within the Rings had just handed him their ticket to the next tier. In sixteen orns a new fighting team would join the rings.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Kup looked fondly over at the mech beside him. Prowl had become a great mech in the many vorns since he had been dropped off in the safety of Praxus. He had grown so fast since Sentinel had found him scurrying through the rubble of the warehouse sector outside of Iacon. The younger mech had become an excellent tactician, despite his youth, and had risen through the Autobot ranks at a remarkable pace since his acceptance. His experience in the Enforcers had made him valuable to High Command already.

Here, in this massive underground arena, Kup, Steelhand, and several overseers were present to give the final testing to two bots ready for leadership. Both young mechs had completed their basic combat training, specialty training, and officer training. They were physically approved for full deployment, but Command needed to ensure that both could lead their troops without losing sight of the Autobot ideals.

It had been Kup’s private dream to train Prowl to take over his position as second in command to Sentinel. Kup was not getting any younger, and his best vorns were already behind him. He was too tenacious to just sit back and retire though, no sir. The old warmonger refused to let the youngsters fight a war alone that should have ended when he was still a youngling. Others had retired, others had felt that they had served their time and had gone off to find their reward. Each and every time though, that reward had been a swift trip to Primus courtesy of the Decepticons.

Now, he feared that Sentinel was too far gone in his own ideals to be guided by anyone anymore. Still he had to try, and their best option was to get Prowl to guide Sentinel with cold logic. The battle computer and redundant logic centers he carried made him very stiff, and extremely logical. Kup only hoped that when Prowl’s time came his skills would be enough to keep Sentinel from destroying their race in the quest to save their world.

Prowl had shown his skills in tactics and logistics, however they had also discovered in his early training, that when forced into scenarios that defied his ability to compute predictable outcomes his systems would initiate a full processor lock up. Despite his liabilities Prowl was good at his job, solid under pressure, and he had a wicked sense of humor hidden beneath the hard-aft exterior he put up.

Kup sighed, Prowl had wicked fast processing capacities yet was prone to lock-ups, such was life; if you had the firepower you often lacked the speed to get it there in time. It was a cruel fate that the Autobots always seemed to have such limitations, especially when the Decepticreeps seemed to have no such faults. The aged warrior twitched a shoulder, ‘Oh well,’ it was irrelevant. Looking over the practice field before him he straightened and signaled Steelhand to begin the simulation.

On the field below them, Steelhand was getting several teams set up to begin maneuvers. Each team was a faction. They had the Autobots, each wearing a red strobe, the Decepticons, who wore purple and the Neutrals who bore no strobe at all, but if tagged into battle by a fighter they would show a strobe of the color they chose. The Neutrals could be tagged in by being asked to join, or they could be tagged in by being attacked and taking the opposite side. This decision was left to the Neutrals, each of which was a more seasoned troop while the Decepticons and Autobots were the greenies. This was one of Steelhand’s favorite games, only, this time, it served a dual purpose.

Representing Sentinel’s detail Prowl commed his orders under Kup’s guidance for the Autobot team, while a promising officer trainee commanded the Decepticons under General Wingblade. Steelhide remained on the field to ensure no one got hurt and to goad the Neutrals into taking a side whether they liked it or not. He also controlled the field’s challenges from faux mines to pit traps and faulty energy readings anything that could appear on a battlefield was his toy. It allowed him to generate a plausible encounter to test the newbies on.

Prowl looked the field over one last time just before Steelhide signaled the beginning of the maneuvers. He signaled the Autobot team leader, a slightly more experienced fighter called Springer, to split his team into two, flanking the Decepticons and separating them from the Neutrals. This gave him more room to maneuver and allowed him to place another fresh face as the other unit’s leader. Prowl was amazed at the other leader, the pink femme was soft spoken and gentle, yet completely vicious when unleashed. She led her troops well following his orders unquestioningly.

The maneuvers were progressing positively for the Autobots, they had recruited four of the six Neutrals and had detained three of the Decepticons, ‘off-lining’ one in the process. Prowl looked calmly at the field, accessing his options. He directed Springer to circle the opponent to the right, blocking them from a ‘refueling station’ and Arcee on the left, keeping the Cons from getting too close to the remaining two Neutrals who had refused to join a side, instead sniping at both factions indiscriminately.

While Prowl was focused on keeping the Decepticons from valuable resources, the opposition leader allowed his troops to be targeted. The Cons were forced to take cover, and a few fell to lucky shots. However, no one noticed the Decepticon prisoners slip their bonds. The former prisoners slunk around the far edge of the field until they could get behind the two remaining Neutrals. In a swift attack they incapacitated the dug in mechs and collected all their weaponry.

The pair hid in the Neutrals camp momentarily, rearranging the many cases of ‘explosives’ to their liking, then fled in opposite directions to get behind the split Autobots. By the time Prowl finally saw the two errant Cons it was too late, his troops were already more than half way across the field as they were pushed back by the Cons into the Neutral camp. It was just as Prowl was about to order Springer and Arcee to consolidate their forces and attempt a full frontal assault that the Neutral camp exploded into a shower of light, blinding all upon the field ‘terminating’ the entire Autobot, and most of the Decepticon forces.

“Game!” Steelhide called as the blinding light of the harmless explosives faded, “Decepticon forces win at greater than fifty-percent loss. Commanders, to the field,” Prowl and Kup quietly left the box. Prowl’s battle computer replayed each move he had made during the game, looking for his mistakes, for what he had done wrong.

From the Decepticon team command box headed a red and dark grey femme followed by a black and white mech that could have almost passed as a twin to Prowl with inverted color schemes. The two sides paused, Kup grinned at Wingblade who only inclined her head in silence.

“Prowl, I see the reports I have received of your skills have not been overstated. Most of our fresh lieutenants suffer equal losses much faster. You have weaknesses, but experience will train these out of your systems. With Command’s approval, you will receive your badging.” Wingblade nodded towards Prowl before turning to Jaz.

“You, however, are cocky, overly self-assured, and at the worst times you falter. I would not recommend your approval to Command, save that we are in desperate need of officers. Understand this, Jazz, your approval is of desperation and not support.” Wingblade turned from the trainees with a sharp spin on her ped and marched from the field.

“Ouch,” Kup chuckled, “You lads both did spectacular out there, especially considering your match lasted the full cycle. Look, both sides are exhausted. I have never seen a match like yours. Remember, Wingblade is a veteran of the aerial battlefield. When her soldiers fall, its rare they ever get up. If their battle injuries don’t kill them, their landing ususally will.”

“I understand,” Prowl spoke softly, optics downcast. “Her ire is also likely due to a lack of her units’ representation on the field. She has no way to access our command skills with her fliers.”

“Very good,” Kup nodded, “Yes, this was also my contribution to your testing. Wingblade is an aerial commander. Her opinion is heavily swayed by others’ abilities to handle her troops safely. Without that comfort she still recommended both of you. That lads is a very rare honor.”

 “Name’s Jazz, guess I owe ya thanks for the entertainment.” The Jazz greeted warmly as Steelhand slowly approached Despite his steady gaze a silent data packet was transmitted to Prowl, who only nodded imperceptibly as he read the message.

“My designation is Prowl. You believe these maneuvers equate to entertainment?” Prowl asked flatly, his voice lacking in all emotional fluctuations. “Today may have been a simulation, however on the real battlefield it is lives that are being played with. Each loss represents a life. Are you so accepting of such losses?”

Jazz grinned, and while he looked friendly there was a decidedly unfriendly cast to his smile. “I’ve dealt with nearly one hundred percent losses before, and those weren’t simulations. It’s entertainment coz there aren’t any lives lost. We can go back to our bunks and toast to making mistakes that can be corrected.

“‘Sides, it was my duty ta simulate the Cons, they don’t care ‘bout losses, they just reprogram Neutrals or Autobots to fill out their ranks.” Both trainees kept quiet about their previous encouters before signing up for officer training. Their progress through the ranks had been carefully choreographed, ensuring that Prowl was only slightly ahead of Jazz. This kept them roughly equal and ready to get their final approvals at roughly the same time. Getting them simultaneously just made their plans going forward that much easier.

Prowl paused a moment to reflect upon the other mech’s words. “I believe you may have a point. This has been a lesson, a valuable one. I underestimated the power held in two mechs, much like in Strategy the smallest weapons often prove the most lethal. A drone can topple a Prime. It is something I allowed myself to overlook.”

Steelhide finally moved to their sides, nodding at the young tactician’s words. “I wondered how long it would take for me to train that lesson into you. I guess you figured that one out for yourself.” Steelhide crossed his massive arms over his chest, cannons softly humming. “Usually I only promote one mech to lieutenant in such a match. However, both of you have shown yourselves to be competent and previous experience has proven you can survive highly dangerous situations.

“I would say congratulations, but that would be cruelty.” Steelhand looked from one youngster to the other, “With your accomodations, you will be given your commands, and ship out immediately.”

Prowl felt his jaw drop, which Steelhand took as shock and only patted the black and white mech’s shoulder. “Good luck lads, you will need it.” The trainer walked away to collect his fighters and clean up the training sight. There were more potential officers to train.

“We’ll have our commands already?” Prowl asked aloud as he looked to Jazz.

“Huh, guess our plan worked better than expected.” The saboteur looked to Prowl worriedly, “Any chance we’ll get sent to the same theater?”

Prowl snorted in amusement, “We have a zero point zero, zero, zero, nine percent chance of fighting in the same theater. Our greatest chances are to be split between the Kanon Theater and the Iacon Theater. The other sixteen major combat locations require heavy use of aerial and space-ready battle units, neither of which we have trained for.”

“Too bad,” Jazz huffed, “I wanted to go for another ride.” He thought back to the time in Paraxus when Prwol had been in his mind, guiding Jazz at every step. Guised as Enforcer Veyron Jazz had been completely out of his depth, and likely would have terminated everyone. Yet, Prowl, steady, calm, brilliant, Prowl had gotten them out alive.

“I would have liked that as well.” Prowl nodded towards the commissary, they could afford some down time over a cube. It would likely be their first, and last chance to speak openly together for a very long time.

 

*** *** *** ***

 

Double-Cross was beside himself with worry. He had heard of a ring match he had not been invited to and wanted to pout, but his brother was not in his studio. He had no one to pout with so he traipsed down filthy alleys towards the rumored location of the Rings – and found Spinout. Only he had just altered his root mode. With a terrible recognition DC wanted to scream, to reach out and deny what he had just seen. Spinout was Sunstreaker. The terrible fighter who relished in death was his sweet, beloved brother. What had happened to Spinout?

Instead of falling to grief over the changes or running to his brother DC followed, noticing Awl at the back entrance. Sunstreaker handing him something to grant him access. DC turned from the back entrance, ready to try to find an unguarded entrance when his comm chimed with Dealout’s signal.

“Make it quick, Dealout, I’m kinda in the middle of something.” DC moved into the shadows surrounding the newest location of the Rings.

“Tonight, fifty-three hundred astroseconds. Pier twenty –four. One of our regulars backed out.” DC paused, twitching nervously. He was at pier twenty-four. He was right outside the rings, and Dealout had just given him a way in.

“I’ll be there with a thank you gift for passing on the news,” DC replied and signed off, turning instead to draw the credits necessary to get entrance.

 

The night felt off to Sunstreaker. He had felt eyes on him in the alleys as he’d changed root mode, had felt Awl looking at him as if accessing the quality of a new purchase, and he’d had a terrible suspicion that something bad was going to happen to DC. It was strange, he mused, how little Spinout and Double-Cross knew of each other. Despite their distance and differences, Spinout – Sunstreaker knew that something was going down tonight and somehow DC was involved.

He had distantly heard the muffled yell, known the voice. DC was betting tonight, and he was being – hasty was the only word that came to Sunstreaker’s slowly tiring mind. Did the idiot really wager to _own_ Sunstreaker? He blew it off; he was on the sidelines right now, so DC had to have bet on a different fighter. With a vague shrug he pushed it from his processors it didn’t affect him, so it didn’t matter.

Then, the fights changed. Random partners assigned and Sunstreaker was the odd man out. No partner. “Tonight we have an odd number of fighters, who do we choose to fill in?” A projected voice filled the room and Sunstreaker stilled, lines freezing with dread as a single word was chanted, ‘spin’.

A strange yellow-blue mech stepped out from the sheltering darkness, holding a line with magnetic clamp on it. He moved to the center of the ring, spinning his line, letting it play out until he launched it into the stands and directly at Double-Cross. The clamp grabbed the stunned mech, and with a mighty jerk the line pulled him from the stands down to the floor far below.

“Congratulations, Sunstreaker, you have a partner.” The blue-yellow mech rumbled, dropping DC next to Sunstreaker.

“What?” DC asked aghast, he was a dealer, a swindler, and an underhanded back stabber. He was not a fighter.

“Damn you!” Sunsreaker cursed, slugging DC in the face and pinning him against the floor. “If you don’t die out there, I will kill you myself.”

DC struggled, but to no avail as he was pinned, and felt a line snick into a cranial jack.

-:- Do you remember before we woke up with Ranger? Do you remember the dreams? Do you? Those weren’t dreams, nor cruelty for the sake of cruelty. Someone wanted us to be something better than civilians. We weren’t meant for Ranger. We have a purpose in our programming. This, fighting, killing was what we were made for. This is why we live. Ranger was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. -:-

With a jarring sting that lanced across his cranial circuits DC felt part of his processors fling off a security lock he had never known existed, and he knew he could fight. Caught up in the rush of sensation of living for the battle DC forgot about his bets, his anger at Spinout and _fought for the deep elating thrill of the spilled energon._

_…_ _Double or nothing, Sunstreaker loses tonight …_

The memory brought DC up short, he had bet against Sunstreaker. He had bet against them if they won this last round, they would lose their freedom. They would be owned by the house. He turned to stop his brother, and froze, their last opponent fell and the fight was over. Raising his hand in elation, Sunstreaker screamed his victory as fresh energon dripped from his fingertips. And Double-Cross fell to his knees at their loss. Now the house owned them.

 

*** *** ***

 

“Somebot better tell me how the Pits Sentinel slipped us again.” Ironhide snarled as he led his security team through their current base. This was the fifth time this vorn that Sentinel had vanished. “What is the pit-slagged use o’ havin’ guards if all he does is slip away any chance he gets? And how does a mech that big _vanish_?”

“Sir, Sky Cutter found him. He’s near Nemisis-1, with Megatron.” A nameless tactical assistant offered up. That was another issue Ironhide had with Sentinel. The blasted Prime kept changing duty rosters on him. Any orn they managed to get a good, solid team together that could lead this army and _snap_ Sentinel would discharge the best they had to different sectors and keep the incompetents.

‘Like Flametower in medical? Why the Pits did Sentinel send Reccus off to medical rescue?’ Ironhide ignored his own questions. They were inconsequential now. He bellowed for troops and transports, and once again wondered if Sentinel was the False Prime the rumors claimed he was. So many mechs had terminated because of Sentinel’s choices, and none of those left in Sentinel’s command could oppose the choice made by the Matrix. They followed the living embodiment of Primus their Prime.

 

Nemisis-1, Prime hated this place. The Decepticons cared little for Cybertron, nor cared that they were custodians of their God’s sleeping frame. Megatron only cared for the power his victories brought him. Sentinel had searched for time unending for a way to stave off the Decepticon predications, and protect their world from annihilation.

Sentinel sighed, the two goals could no longer be kept separate. The Decepticons were too strong to fail in winning the war, and only by ending the war could Cybertron be saved. Sentinel lowered his helm in shame. A Prime should always heed the wisdom of the Matrix, but the council of the past Primes had fallen silent to him. He had to lead a world in chaos alone.

His spark trembled, as if urging him to turn around and seek the safety offered by Ironhide’s steady presence, but that path had closed to him. Ironhide seemed to know every thought in his processors anymore. It was getting harder not to ask for guidance, the kind of council Ironhide had offered freely in the beginning. The guidance Sentinel had scorned.

He looked up, finally within range of Nemisis-1 and Megatron. “Old enemy, we must speak. Our goals are not so dissimilar. I am willing to make sacrifices to ensure the future of our world.”

Megatron appeared from the shadows, his signature smirk of victory stretched across his rugged features. “Prime,” His voice rumbled the title in a vicious purr, “How nice of you to drop by. Does this mean you surrender?”

Sentinel sighed, “As much as I long to see you defeated, the Autobots do not have the power or the resources to stop you.”

“Ha! Finally, you see reason Prime.” Megatron cackled. “But,” He sobered, “Do your Autobots agree with your decision. It would be a shame, Sentinel, to have your followers revolt against you.”

“That is my purpose here, Megatron. The Autobots will not give up, I will give you the next battle and surrender.” They met optics, “My only request is that you leave Cybertron in one piece.”

“Prime, you insult me. I need Cybertron to conquer the galaxy.” Megatron grinned, “And I will need the Autobots to be my army.”

“Autobots Attack!” Ironhide’s bellow rang through the stillness, followed by laser fire.

“No!” Sentinel cried as blasts scored Megatron. Optics wide he watched his hope fall with Megatron and shuddered as he fell into darkness.

Ironhide ordered his mechs to retreat, leaving the Decepticons to boil out from their base to find Megatron on the ground and the Autobots gone. As the Autobots fled Ironhide looked back to Sentinel laid out on the flat transport of Ultra Magnus.

 _-:- I had not realized it had gotten this bad, Ironhide. -:-_ Ultra Magnus radioed from his position in the center of the pack. _-:- The rumors? Is he really a false Prime? -:-_

 _-:- Ah don’t know. -:-_ Hide shighed wearily, _-:- Ah used ta know this Praham. Ah knew the mech he used ta be, knew him in the beginning. Worst of all Ah can’t even tell when he started ta fall down this path. Maybe Ah let him take us down this road, maye Ah lost sight of what is right. -:-_

 _-:- I doubt that, Ironhide. You have done your duty as a bodyguard. His tactics was never your concern, the fact you charged yourself with attempting to guide him as well as protect him shows that you, more than any other, have kept him from destroying us before now. The real question is: What does the Matrix plan to do with him? -:-_ Both mechs fell silent over the comm, joining the rest of the convoy in solemn silence.

Too many had heard Sentinel’s words. Too many knew that their own commander had almost sold them out to the Cons. Too many had lost faith in their Prime.

 

*** *** ***

 

Prowl scowled out the viewscreen of the transport ship. His team knelt in the hold, their helms bowed in pre-battle prayer. None of them wanted this fight, none of them wanted this battle to be here, of all places. Why did it have to be Paraxus?

Their transport skimmed low over the wastelands, sailing over the burning ruins of the warehouses. The Enforcer Tower, atmospheric domes, even the massive crystal senate spire were gone. Jagged shards of crystals reached towards the skies like hands reaching in supplication for succor – only for it to come too late.

 _-:- I’m sorry Prowl, I know this place meant a lot to ya. -:-_ Jazz’s voice sounded over private comm.

 _-:- Location? -:-_ Prowl’s optics scoured the landscape, looking for Jazz and his special opps combat unit.

 _-:- Knock, knock -:-_ Prwol looked to the right, staring at the transport beside them.

 _-:- This is your assignment as well? -:-_ Prowl stiffened, _-:- They have deployed the special opps and the heavy mixed units? Jazz, watch yourself, this will bad. -:-_

A muted ping echoed on Prowl’s comms, and for a spark beat Prowl could almost see Jazz give his signature half-visor wink. Prowl straightened, his emotional protocols shutting down as he ramped up his tactical analysis suite. He turned from the bridge, leaving the piloting to the transport crew.

“Officer on deck!” The crouched soldiers saluted from their magnetized positions as Prowl joined them.

“Paraxus is lost. Our duty is to repel the Decepticons and save as many as possible from the ruins.” Prowl looked firmly at each of his mechs in turn, “Be ready to give mercy to any citizens who have been exposed to Decepticon reprogrammers. If you see a Paraxan bearing the purple haze, eliminate it with extreme prejudice.

“Do this for my family unit, and for me.” Prowl spoke softly, the barest hint of emotion shining in his optics.

“Yes, sir!” The five mechs of his hexad unit replied in unison.

“Release safety protocols, mechs, get ready to deploy!” Steelcracker ordered as unit second. The team moved, shifting to the rear hatch of the transport. Braced and ready, the moment the hatch opened they leaped from the transport. The ground rushed up to meet them, wind screaming past them until their chutes opened just high enough to slow them down before impact.

 _-:- Sir, we’ve got twelve mechs safely on the ground. -:-_ Steelcracker reported nervously.

“Hey Prowler, long time.” Jazz sauntered up and clapped Prowl on the shoulder with a wide grin.

“It has been a long time, Jazz. And, my designation is Prowl.”

“So, my turn or yours?” Jazz asked casually. Prowl looked their assembled mechs over, then turned to the battlefield stretching before them.

“Yours,” Prowl admitted, as he held out his wrist, data slot open. Jazz smirked, a remote module popped from his wrist that he snicked into Prowl’s.

“Good, means I finally get ta pay ya back for the first ride ya gave me.” Jazz spun on his ped, hands on his hips. “My team, ya listen ta Prowl. This is a joint team effort. Follow his orders, I’m just along fer the ride.”

“I have assigned pairs, team up. We will be doing double hexad sweeps. Team A, look for survivors. Team B, route all ‘Cons.” He turned to Jazz, “Keep me updated as needed if your team has special assignments.”

“Ya heard the mech, move out!” The teams moved out, racing through the outskirts of the warehouse district and moving into the city at a run. Together the mechs vanished into the billowing dust that rose like a thick fog engulfing the city in utter blackness.

 

Shrapnel and dust filled the air as jets and copters flew overhead above the Autobots crouched down behind buckled metal plating and debris to hide from the strafing Decepticon fire. The unit was trapped, blocked off from the main forces in a radio null zone and pinned down by overwhelming numbers.

“Well, Prowl ya got any good ideas for getting us out of here alive?” Jazz asked with as much of a jaunty air as he could manage as he knelt at Prowl’s back near the forefront of the hiding spot. When Jazz had heard Prowl’s unit had been assigned to clearing out Paraxus he had pulled in a few favors to get assigned along side. It was a decision he had been grateful for making every step of this assignment.

“Actually, yes.” Prowl responded dryly, “Remember our first match?” Around the two officers the many bots crouching and returning fire looked at them curiously, most unaware that their commanders had worked together before.

“Yeah, it was fun and a good game, ya almost had me a couple of times.” Jazz replied levelly, eyeing his partner over his shoulder warily, “What ya thinkin’ over there?”

A trine of seekers flew low, bellies nearly scraping the city wreckage below as they ran a strafing run over the Autobot fox-hole. Within the unit of twelve Bots crouched low against the overhanging walls of the crater a previous battle had sunk into the metallic hide of Cybertron.

“Simply, that to get out of this we need to think like Decepticons and not Autobots. They expect us to shoot only to injure and to flee as soon as we get out of the line of fire – as Sentinel has too often commanded,” Prowl responded. As he straightened up, his door wing pointed slightly to the right towards a small remaining energon storehouse that had survived the initial invasion of the city of the crystal gardens. “If we take out enough of their numbers they will be forced to call upon reinforcements and in the confusion we should be able to escape, or at least regroup with other ground units.”

“It sounds like suicide ta me, but I’ll take ya word on it. Ya haven’t led me astray yet.” Jazz managed to clip one of the jets on the wing with a lucky shot, sending the wounded ‘Con to leave for repairs.

“We need a volunteer.” Prowl raised his voice in a momentary lull in the firing, the many aerial ‘Cons circling around for another run.

“I believe I may be of assistance.” A proud, noble voice spoke at Jazz’s shoulder, yet no mech was visible.

“Who –” Prowl stared bewilderedly at the empty space momentarily.

“You may stare if you wish, but my power reserves cannot hold this indefinitely. The Decepticons cannot shoot what they cannot see.”

“Do it, move out.” Jazz nodded smirking at his partner’s unusual uncertainty and looked his troops over. Wincharger and Brawn to the south, Steelcracker, Streamline and Trailbreaker to the west, Warpath and Inferno to the north, and Landquaker, Smokescreen and –

“It is Mirage.” Prowl said softly as he finally pulled up the personnel info for the now missing soldier, “He holds matter disruptors. No one will detect him. His shielding protects him from thermal, radar, sonar, and audio detection. He is the safest of us all for infiltrating enemy positions.”

Jazz nodded in return and continued to fire upon the aerial jets, “Now you know why he’s in SpecOps.” With the combined efforts of his men sending three more to the ground before a tumble of small fragments from the edge of their hidey-hole betrayed Mirage’s return.

 _-:- A tactical retreat would be in order. -:-_ Mirage sent over their internal communications net.

 _-:- All units retreat south! Split into four groups: Inferno, Smokescreen each take three units. The rest split between Prowl and me! -:-_ Jazz sent their troops into action, pinging their assignments to their internal displays as he lead the full retreat just as the ridge above them exploded engulfing Seekers and jets in gouts of flame and debris.

The team fell to their alt modes in mass, the units breaking away and fleeing in different directions. Prowl led deeper into the city, his four-mech team heading towards the ruined husk of the consulate. Ahead, he spotted a pinned down group of Autobots, the airfoils folded tightly against larger frames showing they were the aerial response unit led by General Wingblade.

Prowl’s spark rose, ‘Jazz, I found Wingblade’s unit, head towards the consulate.’ He sent his thought along their shared module and copied the command to Inferno and Smokescreen. It was comforting, Prowl mused as they raced towards the pinned down Autobots, their own munitions adding to repel the Decepticons strafing overhead, having Inferno in his unit. Once known as Steam when they had been little they had one more Precious Spark in their fold. It made knowing friend from foe just a little easier.

 _-:- All ranking commanders ping in! -:-_ A desperate voice radioed over the Autobot comm. Somebot must have knocked out the Decepticon signal jammers. Prowl vented a little easier and added his ping to the others sounding in. Just as he reached the edge of the crater the aerials hunkered in he realized why the request had been made.

His unit swerved around the grayed corpse of Wingblade. Her second, Lightleap, lay just on the edge of the crater, or at least his helm was there. Prowl kept himself from looking for the rest of the frame as he transformed and vaulted into the fox hole It was safer than being exposed on the ground.

 _-:- Lieutenant Prowl, you have command. -:-_  The radio officer, Beatbox, spoke tightly over the comm. _-:- All ranking officers are down. Sir, we can’t get a message outside of Praxus. -:-_

Prowl’s spark froze and fear filled his lines. He had led his team for all of five dren, only half a vorn. He was not ready to command an entire military theater! Wavering emotional protocols were locked down as Prowl pinged his acceptance code.

There was no other option.

Prowl cycled his vents, spark lightening as Jazz vaulted into their cramped hidey-hole. “Jazz,” Prowl’s voice was steady, but sharing their data link, Jazz could feel the terror Prowl locked out of his own spark. “Do you remember the warehouse?”

Jazz nodded, he knew what was coming. Prowl had to get a feel for the battlefield, he had to analyze all the battle data he could. “I’ve got your back.” Jazz promised, his lighthearted manner of speaking dropped in his sincerity. Prowl nodded, clenched his fists, and knelt. Door wings pressed against the rear wall of the foxhole, Prowl locked his joints and powered down.

 _-:- All unit commanders, forward battle data immediately. -:-_ Prowl’s voice rang across the comm, his tone clipped, stoic and calm he sounded every inch of the commander they needed. Jazz forwarded all the data he had, including material he had never shared before.

“You two,” Jazz hailed a pair of aerial fighters grounded from wounds to their wings. “Can ya still fight?”

“Yes, sir.” Both acknowledged.

“Good, that mech there is Prowl. He will get us outta this, but he needs ta figure out how. He can’t fight and calculate the field, so you two are gonna be his body guards. If we move out, you carry him. If he gets fired on, you take the shots. If you see an enemy soldier, you _kill it_. There is no wounding, no scaring away, no intimidating. Get cold, and shoot to kill. Any questions?”

Both shook their helms, the icy presence emanating from the smaller mech intimidated them. “We understand, sir.” Jazz nodded and moved to the edge of their staging point. There was far too little cover for his liking.

_-:- Mirage, Inferno, Windcharger, Brawn; get to the center spire. Set up a remote cannon and three others from sniper positions. Warpath, Trailbreaker, Steelcracker, Streamline; set up heavy artillery fire at these locations. Target the Seekers and bomber units. Smokescreen, Landquaker; find us a fall back position. Move out! -:-_

Jazz pinged coordinates to the mechs and hunkered down, trying to figure out a way to keep them all alive until Prowl finished. He looked over his shoulder at his friend and frowned. Too much was happening, and they had no time.

 

*** *** ***

 

Ratchet strode through the wastes with a steady gait. On his back, a pack lay heavy, full of energon and spare parts. Around his right arm was a disruptor to stave off the lightning strikes that had become common out here where cities had been blasted off the face of their planet. A heavy crystal weave canvas cloak covered him from helm to tread shielding him from the acid rain that fell from the ever-increasing dark clouds overhead, while below the crystalline fabric lies a blaster rifle slung over his left shoulder.

Ahead, a plume of smoke rose ominously into the air. Ratchet scowled, pinged his corordinates to his internal map and sighed. A deep resignation stole over his spark. Ahead of him was Paraxus – or what was left of it. Ratchet snarled and folded down, the crystal weave encapsulating his alt mode as he screamed across the last distance between him and the last city of Cybertron not engulfed by the planet-wide civil war.

It was worse than he feared. The back warehouse district had been bombed heavily, yet now lay abandoned. Mechs and femmes straggled out of the city in fear, escaping in ones and twos; most dragging themselves with broken limbs from the ruins. “Guess for once I’m here right on time.” Ratchet murmured as his alt mode finally reached the beleaguered city.

He found a crevasse leading to an underground tunnel system, one that only led away from Paraxus. “This way! Hurry!” Ratchet summoned the fleeing refugees. Watching those capable as they ran to him, into their planet, and away. The rest were too wounded to run, and too scared. Ratchet set up a tent, a triage ward on the edge of the rift into their plante’s skin. Shrouded in his crystalweave cloak, none saw his features. Wearing his disruptor, none sensed his EM field. He moved like a ghost between those needing his aid. Working in uncanny silence as so many lay on the blade’s edge of slipping into the Unmaker’s grasp. Ratchet knew, in the depth of his spark, when this was over he wouldn’t need to worry about spare parts for a long, long time.

He would be pulling parts from the dead as needed. He would be their unmaker when his hands failed to heal them. Such was the fate of the medic: creator, healer, unmaker. There was no rest for the weary, not for any medic, not for him.

 

*** *** ***

 

When the noise first began, Prowl could not place it. The sound was strange, one he had not heard in so long that he had almost forgotten what it was. Yet, it grew, rose in volume from a dull, distant drone to an enveloping roar. It was a cry of victory. Mech’s held their weapons to the skies and screamed their victory. The Cons were retreating.

His doorwings sagged. He was so tired. His processors ached from running constantly since he had been _awarded_ command of the Paraxan Theater two vorns ago. He looked around the city he had once called home, optics finally registering the wreckage. The city that had once risen high above the ground, encased in the crystalline domes holding in its atmosphere was now little more than a few jagged spires of shattered metal and crystal rising from the cratered ground.

“Hey, mech, deep intakes, okay?” Jazz was holding Prowl’s shoulders as he keened, knees buckling as he realized he stood right outside the home he had shared with his collected family unit of orphans.

“Survivors?” Prowl asked hoarsely, he had the data in his memory banks somewhere, but he couldn’t focus. His home was gone.

“Some, not many.” Jazz replied apologetically. “There are reports that a medical ward had opened up in the early orns of the Paraxan Rout, but there is no sign of it. I’ve some reports sayin’ whole units were injured and sent there for treatment. None ever made it back. We don’t know if the medical ward was real or a Decepticon ploy.”

Prowl rubbed a hand over his chevron, starting when his hand came away coated in grease and congealed fluids he did not want to identify. He looked up sharply from his hand to Jazz and realized they both looked equally terrible. Every mech did. He swallowed tightly, finally noticing the many troops trying not to see him breaking down.

 _-:- Autobots, the orn is won. We have driven off the Decepticons, but our duty is not yet done. We have survivors. We have saved lives. Well done. Now, we must return to Iacon. -:-_ Prowl stood shakily, when he had a berth and some down time, he was going to recharge for a vorn straight. He looked to Jazz, suddenly realizing the mech had never left his side, then he looked at his wrist. The data link module was still in place.

‘Yeah, mech, still here. Ya never asked me ta take it back. Don’t think I wanna reclaim it just yet either. Don’t really wanna be alone in my head just yet, yanno?’ Prowl heard Jazz’s thought in his helm and smiled, his spark lightening somewhat despite the blankness on his faceplates.

‘Yes, Jazz I know. The company will be appreciated.’ They turned from the field and headed to their final rendezvous zone to get their ragtag army together and figure out a way home.

Overhead a heavy droning sounded, massive transports filled the skies, making the troops on the ground scatter and hide. Jazz looked up, optics wide beneath his visor. “Autobots!” He bellowed as every transport incoming overhead bore the red haze. “It’s the Autobots!”

_-:- This is Commander Orion Pax, Iacon Base Retrieval Unit. We are here to take you home. -:-_

_-:- Commander Prowl, Paraxan Theater, we are ready to go home. -:-_ Prowl let his words sound over the comm, and the cry sounded once again. Victory and rescue all in one orn. He looked to Jazz with a small smile gracing his faceplates. “Get them loaded, lieutenant.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Sentinel paced his quarters. Everything was falling apart. It started when he failed to secure Megatron’s assistance in keeping Cybertron alive in exchange for Autobot surrender. Ironhide had stopped him _again_. Sentinel growled his gears in silent rage, spark flaring with the fury he dared not unleash. The red mech had become a menace.

Ever since his failed attempt to get Megatron as an ally in saving Cybertron Sentinel had found his many attempts to save their world thwarted by Ironhide. Sentinel froze mid step, optics staring forward as if witnessing a vision, and grinned. Ironhide would have to die.

Sentiel took up his pacing once more. Others had begun to plot against him as well. He had arranged for the most disparate teams to be assigned to Paraxus, he had expected massive Autobot losses and loss of morale to lead to an easy Decepticon victory. Instead he had lost a great general. Wing blade had understood his desire to save their world she had supported his movements. Now, he stood more alone than ever and the masses were rallying behind this Prowl.

Finally tired Sentinel sat at his desk. He had planning to do. He had to get rid of the undesireable elements that would prolong the war that was destroying their world. Frowning, Sentinel reached for a data pad of updated troops records. It was time to make some new arrangements –

A knock interrupted his thoughts, and made him smile. Only one mech was sincere enough to physically knock on the door instead of ping an entry request. “Enter, Orion.”

“Sir,” the small blue mech entered looking pensive. “The units retrieved from Paraxus will be landing soon. General Wingblade and all commanders above lieutenant were terminated in the fighting.”

“I know it is terrible news to hear of such losses, my friend.” He looked to the smaller bot, “What troubles you?”

“There are growing rumors, whispers, that are terrifying. I hear from secretive voices that a False Prime exists. Sir – Sentinel, please be careful. This false Prime, whoever he is, whatever he may be could do you terrible harm.” Orion nervously pulled his arms to his chest, one and rising to rub his chin, “They even say he gives orders that sends good Autobots to their deaths, and keeps aid from reaching troops in need.”

Sentinel forced a concerned expression on his face as he tried not to smile. “My friend, you have always been kind. This False Prime is but a rumor, the words of mechs put in dangerous situations who cannot accept that I cannot be in all places at all times. My duty is to my people, and my world. I will protect everything I stand for with all my strength.”

Orion nodded, “Thank you, sir. Still, I am concerned. Have you heard any news of Elita or Magnus? I know I do not have the rank to know of their positions, but are they still alive?” Blue optics looked imploringly up to Sentinel.

“Orion, your brother and dear Elita are both well. They are fighting on the opposite side of the world from us, in as safe of theaters as I can place them. I promise they will return to you.” Sentinel offered with sinciere optics, optics that turned hard and suspicious the moment Orion left his office.

“Even the council of Ancients has planned against me.” Sentinel looked to the far wall that led straight to the current location of the ancients’ hall hidden within their base.

 

*** *** ***

 

Prowl looked the stream of recruits, defectors, rescued civilians and transferred military units that poured out of the last transport from Praxus. His adopted home with its peaceful towers, the many temples to Primus, the brilliant gardens, and all the trappings of peace were gone. He had found himself welcomed there as if sparked from one of their facilities from the day he had been left there in Sagebright’s caring hands.

He had made a home there. He had made friends, fond a nice oil bar where he had always been welcomed and had assembled a small family unit of loners like him. Now all were gone.

_“Prowl!” Jazz called over the battle din, his yell sounding in stereo out loud and across their shared data link. “Prowl, get over here.” Prowl rushed to Jazz’s location, staring in shock akin to horror as he looked at Sagebright’s helm on a pike in the courtyard to her orphanage. Below her still dripping, severed head lay the gray corpses of Prowl’s family unit that had lived with her. Leaflet, Cinder – they had just gotten their final upgrades before Prowl joined the Autobots. They had been so happy._

Now it was a smoking ruin. Everything Prowl had considered worth fighting for, all the trappings of a false peace he had deluded himself into to believing in were gone.

“Credit for ya worries?” Jazz suddenly appeared at Prowl’s elbow. The doorwinger could never pick up on Jazz’s approach. Yet that never worried him. Jazz was a constant, someone who had seemingly always been there save for a few short vorns when they had been terribly young.

“Only Dead End and the Acid Wastes remain, the rest of Cybertron has fallen into this war.” Prowl spoke flatly, his emotionless voice seemingly unaffected by the loss. The rank and file nearest them barely restrained snarls at his coldness, but Jazz knew better. The data link in his wrist still allowed him to follow Prowl’s usually closed off emotions.

“Ya did everythin’ ya could, Prowl. So did I. We’ve done the best we could.” Jazz huffed a long exvent as he looked over the massive crowd of refugees and soldiers. “But it ain’t good enough, is it?”

Prowl did not reply, but the question had been rhetorical at best. Sentinel rarely did anything the full command agreed with. Too many hung on his every word and deed. Those who clung to Sentinel’s position as Prime the tightest seemed the most blind to the atrocities of the war. It was a disturbing trend that Prowl would do anything to break. With a barely perceptible nod the tactician sent Jazz a highly encrypted data packet.

Jazz opened the file carefully, ensuring redundant failsafes and firewalls erected once the data had been received. He stood silently beside Prowl, outwardly he was alert to the activity of the loading dock they stood in, even yelling out greetings and throwing commands as needed. Inside his processors, however, Jazz was a completely different mech.

 _-:- Woo mech, Prowler how long have ya been planning this?-:-_ Jazz asked over their secure comm as he read the files. The request was for a special ops unit outside of Punch's channels. It more resembled an outline for a miniature army within the Autobot ranks than a real unit.

 _-:- Since the orn we lost 3:1:0. -:-_ Prowl replied crisply, dredging up fonder memories of a distant time when there had been a peaceful protector over them and the knowledge that nothing bad could ever get them so long as 3:1:0 stood at his fabrication bench creating ever more Precious Sparks. -:- _Only then I had intended to find the eight of us together as a family unit. -:-_

Fond memories indeed, Jazz mused with a slight grin on his faceplates as he greeted another batch of survivors. _-:- How do we get the approval?-:-_ He looked sidelong at his tactical counterpart, knowing that everything had already been planned well in advanced.

 _-:- En route here I was given clearance to all of Sentinel’s on-the-record manuvers to date. -:-_ Prowl looked to Jazz with stiff intensity, _-:- He has been attempting to force_ us _, the Autobots,_ _to lose the war. He even slipped from Ironhide and tried to surrender to Megatron. -:-_

 _-:- Mech, that is wrong on so many levels. He’s tryin’ ta sell out his own people! -:-_ Jazz seethed, his communications snarled and violent despite how calm and benign he appeared outwardly.

_-:- Exactly. Ironhide interceded and stopped him. Praxus was Megatron’s revenge. Our success has forced Sentinel to take up the fight in earnest. Megatron wants Sentinel’s helm._

_-:- If Sentinel wants to live to see Cybertron saved from destruction at our own hands he needs a new unit to do his dirty work. -:-_ Prowl responded, his nearest doorwing fluctuating minutely as if adjusting to the stiff breeze barreling through the open receiving doors. Yet that tiny motion told Jazz more than the most condensed data packet.

 _-:- How will one unit help him?_ _-:-_ Jazz asked, his lips attempting to smirk. He was mad at their Prime in fact, he was livid they had lost Praxus because their oh so beloved Prime had _sold them out_. Sentinel had changed in the passing vorns, something had _twisted_ in their Prime’s spark and mind. The large red mech was no longer the wise mech all turned to. Instead he had become darker, secretive. Rumors had sprung up among the lesser ranks and civilians that Sentinel was a False Prime, that he was an usurper holding the true Prime’s position and hiding their one true leader. It was an idea Jazz was starting to believe in.

_-:- We will fight Megatron. -:-_

Jazz looked to his partner incredulously, “Say again?” His hands went to his hip plating as he looked to the ground. “Are you insane?”

Prowl nodded as the final refugees filed out of the cargo bay. “Perhaps, if we do not do this, then I am to be transferred to Slaughter City Omega Outpost.” He looked at Jazz, “We did well out there, and this is my reward.”

“No mech, no way in the Pits are ya goin’ out there! It’s a deathtrap. Slaughter City earned its name fer a reason.” Jazz snarled softly, turning on Prowl with optic visor glowing furiously. “I thought tacticians were in high demand!”

“We are, but Deftwing follows Prime’s decisions willingly and is seeking to secure his new position at Sentinel’s peds.” Prowl sighed. Behind them the ship closed and lifted off taking their former units to their next action zone and whatever new combat mission the new head tactician dictated.

“Yer still not goin'.” Jazz replied sternly, he might still be getting to know Prowl who once had been known as Stalk, but he was not going to lose one of 3:1:0's younglings he had been created with ever again.

“I have no choice in this Jazz. Either I form this new unit and find ways to complete my objectives or I go to Slaughter City, and you will be sent to Quadrant Epsilon to serve as a chief security guard in the Detention Banks. I was given your orders the moment we touched down.”

Jazz smirked darkly, “So this is their game? Megatron slaughters our race and Sentinel stands back to watch?”

“In not so many words, yes. Sentinel has allowed himself to become blinded by his goals of saving our planet. He has not considered that a Decepticon victory would be a death sentence to both our species and our world.” Prowl sighed, with the hanger full of new arrivals and yelling commanders he did not fear to be overheard.

“Alright,” Jazz relented, “Lets get you your unit,” he grabbed Prowl’s shoulder and steered the black and white down the long corridor to junior officer territory and their temporary offices. “I’ve got some vintage stock and a good list of mechs just right fer any job.”


	9. Image Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good intentions pave the road to Unicron. Prowl learns this the hard way. Ratchet is beginning to hate med bays. Brothers are tested, and new atrocities give impetus for the future to unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of rape.

Sunstreaker panted, his fans shrieking to expel the excess heat from his frame. Energon dripped from his left shoulder, right arm hanging uselessly at his side. He glared at the mech across from him; rents along the taller aerial mech's wings and airfoils kept him grounded. The hole punched through the left wing made Sunstreaker smirk. That hit had felt good.

The orange and blue Seeker, Bitstream, smirked back. He was damaged, but he would never back down. The determination chiseled in his faceplates and shone from his optics.

Sunstreaker respected his opponent, but the desire to kill him was greater. The mech had torn off some of Sunstreaker's plating. Damage to the sparsely armored, daub yellow plating was a death sentence.

Around them, the fans and gamblers in the tiered seats held their collective intakes in breathless silence. Grey corpses littered the arena floor. Mech fluids splattered the walls and closest spectators. All optics watched with rapt glee, waiting for the next strike.

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed into lethal slits of blazing ice. He tensed. Before Bitstream could register the slight change, he charged. In the back of his processors, he could sense his brother, an image of a blaster hidden between the flier’s leg and a half torn-off wing flitted into his processors. So, the Con was a cheat.

Sunstreaker didn’t need a blaster to kill a mech. He didn’t even need a weapon. His left hand fisted as he ran, fingertips sharpening into claws that dug into his dermal plating. As he got in range Bitstream brought the small blaster to bear and fired.

The motion expected, Sunstreaker flipped over the oncoming laser blasts, landed a scant half length from the Seeker and sprung at his opponent. In midair Sunstreaker punched at the Bitstream’s chest, fingers extending as he reached the chest plate and tore through the plating over the Seeker’s spark.

“Hold!”

Sunstreaker froze. He looked over his still functioning shoulder with his hand buried in Bitstream’s chest, fingers wrapped firmly around the pulsating spark. Behind them, sitting on his throne in the stands was Megatron. The exalted lord gave them the honor of his presence.

With his command, the rings emptied. Decepticon guards ushered the many spectators out, despite the grumbling.

“Release your opponent, Sunstreaker,” Megatron commanded, once the seats were empty.

Snarling, sneering at his master and wanting so badly to rip the spark in his hand from its chest, Sunstreaker obeyed. He had no choice. Sideswipe sat at Megatron’s peds, he had wanted Sideswipe to regale him with stories of their victories while Sunstreaker fought. The Decepticon commander had not guessed, not yet, at what they were.

“Bitstream, you intrigue me,” Megatron announced. “I have need of Seekers in my forces, serve me, declare your loyalty and you will be rewarded.”

“I will serve Lord Megatron!” Bitstream swore as he panted, one hand pressed desperately over his exposed spark. Behind him, several mechs appeared and helped him limp away to the chirurgeon's bay. Sunstreaker suppressed a shudder chirurgeons were one step away from being insane butchers. The so-called medics hacked damaged limbs off without a care, welded on a new limb and sent the victim off to their cell.

There was no anesthesia, and rust followed every victim. It was something Sunstreaker shuddered at with every fight. He fought more for self-preservation than the thrill. That initial thrill of battle, the high of being in the ring pounding his fists or weapons against another mech, had lured him into this Pit. Now, he just wanted out, hopefully with all important components still attached!

At Megatron’s peds, Sideswipe tried to remain neutral. He watched with a half smile on his faceplates. So often they were forced to fight solo. After their initial fight, one in which no one had figured them out as being brothers, they had been kept separate.

They, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, knew they had to get out of the Pits, and soon. Awl and Dealout had fallen from Megatron’s good graces, but once they raised themselves back up, they would spill about Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s true identities, and their relationship. It was not something either brother wanted to think about, not after –

:: I told you not to think about that! :: Sunstreaker’s voice snarled across their bond, one they had done everything to shut off, but still couldn’t.

:: It might have been over two vorns for you, but it was only a few joor for me.:: Sideswipe sent back, a shudder wracking his frame. He forced himself to look intently at Sunstreaker in the ring and appear anxious for a fight.

“And you, Sunstreaker?” Megatron asked. This was the first time the warlord had witnessed him in the rings, but the tales of the mech’s accomplishments were legendary throughout the Decepticon forces. “Will you serve me?”

Sunstreaker sneered, “I’ve seen these Autobots you fight. They offer no challenge. Why should I leave here, when I can actually get my talons dirty?” He held out his energon stained hand, showing the sharpened claws that dripped Bitstream’s life fluids. He drew in the other mech's blood with a slow, gleeful lick.

So close, he had been fractions of a talon length from terminating the other mech. The interruption in taking a Decepticon’s life only solidified Sunstreaker’s hatred of them, his hatred of Megatron for taking what should have been his.

“What of you, Sideswipe?” Megatron asked with a cruel grin, his hand pulling sharply on the energized collar bound around the gladiator’s throat. “Would you join my Decepticons?”

Sideswipe grinned widely, praying that this would not get him terminated. “Why should I?” He asked brightly, “I’ve defeated tougher gladiators than your fighters. If the ones you choose are no better than Bitstream, then you’re bound to be defeated. I’d rather watch the show, than side with the losers.”

::Dumbaft.:: Sunstreaker rumbled over their connection, internally wincing as Sideswipe was physically thrown from the stands to land at Sunstreaker’s peds.

“Kill each other, and save me the trouble,” Megatron ordered and left, disgust coloring his voice.

::How are we still alive?:: Sideswipe asked as he pulled himself to his peds.

::Because something more important just came up.:: Sunstreaker stared at Megatron’s retreating form. The tyrant launched into the air, Seeker-like thrusters extending from the bottoms of his peds blasted into the air and shot him out of sight.

Together the two walked from the empty stands. If they didn’t have an audience, then there was no point in fighting. They headed to their stalls, Sideswipe pulling out an auto-drone, one of the rare and expensive drone-medic units that could fix most of their injuries. Since the gladiators were kept in stables with raised partitions they had dug a hole between their small stalls and hidden the unit there. Usually, they wiled away the time fighting across the divider. It made their keepers believe they were imbeciles, which Sideswipe played up in the ring.

They could not afford to have the guards and wardens believing they actually had half a processor between them. As they fixed Sunstreaker’s plating Sideswipe remembered how he had gotten this new design, and designation.

 

_“This orn promises a treat – Battle Royale!” The announcer bellowed out over the crowd. Double-Cross ignored the clamor beyond his cage. He was still seething at Sunstreaker – at Spin Out – for losing his double or nothing bet that landed him in this slag-hole. He had cut off their bond as much as he could since falling into this place. He refused to even look at his backstabbing brother._

_Suddenly his cage opened and he strutted out, he sneered and scowled, but the crowd screamed regardless. Across from him stood Sunstreaker. DC saw red. His optics deepened to a darker blue in rage. Sunstreaker had caused all of this!_

_DC’s helm snapped from impact, his body flying and crashing to the ground before he could even recognize what had hit him. He rolled, moved to his peds and gulped as he realized he and Sunstreaker were the two newest gladiators standing in a ring full of heavily armed giants._

_::Want to ignore me now?:: Spin Out’s voice sounded across their bond. Still sultry and pouty sounding, Spin Out’s mental voice made DC’s spark constrict to stand by his brother again._

_::Not really!:: DC bounded from his position, kicking at an oncoming battle ax and clipping the bearer in the wrist hard enough to make the heavy blade sing far too close to his helm for comfort._

_::Get that ax!:: Spin Out’s voice ordered in DC’s helm. Nodding slightly, the unarmed burgundy mech looked his opponent over and charged, relying on his smaller size and speed to get too close for the massive blade to be used. His guess was right, the gladiator threw the blade down as he tried to squish DC in a crossed-arm embrace against his chest plate._

_DC dropped to the ground, rolled to his peds as fast as lightning and snatched the blade that was taller than his helm. He flicked a switch on the handle, energizing the plasma blade and swung with all his might. The blade sliced clean through the taller gladiator’s chest, the guttered spark falling in half at DC’s peds._

_::Behind you!:: DC turned to block the oncoming attack, only to stumble back at the impact. A mech had him by the throat, processed-energon gray plating bristled with blades the gladiator had shoved into his armor. The various broken pieces of metal stuck out from all angles making the mech look like a shattered mirror had been glued to his frame._

_DC clutched at his throat unable to break the larger mech’s grip. He looked up at burning crimson optics and felt his spark plummet. The depravity promised in those optics made his worst plots look like youngling play. That scared DC scared him more than anything ever had before._

_His intakes screamed as he choked for air, the larger mech’s hand fully covering all of DC’s major intakes and cutting off his cool air supply. Frame heating, unable to ex-vent, DC’s major functions threatened to short out._

_Behind them Sunstreaker battled the other gladiators, desperation giving him speed and strength. His sadistic hunger for mech-blood made the onlookers scream for his performance, but for once the cries gave him no pleasure._

_DC watched, vision fading as Sunstreaker cleared the arena, then shoved a blade through the massive gladiator’s chest. DC dropped, gasping for air as he landed hard onto the ground. He rolled to his side, gasping and choking, his optics stinging from the rush of energon to his circuits._

_Movement forced DC to look up. Looming over him stood Sunstreaker. Cold fear washed through DC. The gladiator that had nearly killed him was now in pieces pinned to a wall with a massive blade sticking through his chest._

_::Spin Out?:: DC asked tentatively across their bond and flinched as that bond was savagely severed as his brother backhanded him. His helm snapped to the side and DC saw stars._

_“This is all your fault.” Sunstreaker rumbled slightly as he pummeled DC’s battered frame …_

 

“Primus, cut it out,” Sunstreaker rumbled as he pulled Sideswipe from the memory. “Ripthrough wanted you as his personal trophy – permanently.” He placed the device’s clamp over his torn shoulder, letting the small onboard tools reach into his plating to fix his damage.

“I don’t remember anything after that first hit you gave me,” Sideswipe admitted softly. His processors were blank beyond the pummeling.

 

_His processors were fuzzy, his frame heavy. The welds along his frame ached as they healed. ‘Wait, welds?’_

_“Welcome back, Sideswipe.” Sunstreaker looked down at him from a stool by his_ berth _._

_“Who?” He asked blankly, wondering why his brother in disguise had called him the wrong name._

_:: I’m talking to you, dim-bits.::_

_Double Cross blinked slowly, “Why does everything hurt?”_

_Sunstreaker looked to his folded hands, fingers clenched tight enough to make his own plating groan. “_ Ripthrough _–”_

_“Yeah, he had me by the throat. I thought he was going to blow some circuits from the constrained heat.”_

_“He wanted to rip you in half.” Sunstreaker’s voice was hoarse, optics nearly white with emotions Double Cross was blocked from sensing._

_::Spins? What aren’t you telling me?::_

_Sunstreaker glared, optics scowling and handsome face pulled into a deep frown. ::It’s Sunstreaker, moron! Spin-Out died when Double Cross fell into the Pits. And, Double Cross was killed with my hands. I –::_

_Sunstreaker watched Double Cross flail in Ripthrough’s grasp. The larger gladiator covered in shards of broken metal, crystal shards, and sharpened blades had been coveting Double Cross as a trophy since the merchant had fallen into the Pits. Sunstreaker knew DC had made_ Ripthrough _into a fool when he had won a massive bet his first time in the rings when he had bet against the gladiator._

 _Since learning the designation of the mech that had ruined his reputation,_ Ripthrough _had sought to utterly destroy the mech, and now DC hung limply in his hands. Sunstreaker reacted out of self-preservation. Something told him he would not survive the_ orn _if DC were killed. He ran, the world blurring until he was looking at Ripthrough’s stunned face._

_Sunstreaker stepped back, watching in shock as his hands released a massive blade he had no memory of picking up. His optics tracked the blade to Ripthrough’s chassis. He knew, from staring at Ripthrough’s optics that this loss had only heightened Ripthrough’s battle lust and ultimate desire to destroy Double Cross. Sunstreaker turned and realized DC was still alive._

_“This is all your fault,” Sunstreaker slugged his brother, surprised as their bond opened and his face blossomed with phantom pain. “If you hadn’t followed me I’d be safe and you’d be rolling in credits. You had to be greedy, you had to take what was mine!”_

_His fists were pummeling the burgundy and gray faceplates. Anger Sunstreaker had not realized was burning in his spark now poured from his hands as violent attacks and from his mouth in burning vitriol he poured upon his only family._

_DC screamed, begged, pleaded his cries a treasure to Sunstreaker. It was addicting, hearing the screams, feeling the pain, the fear. Wanting more Sunstreaker ripped plating off his brother’s frame, exposed delicate wires and private ports. Energon poured out of DC’s frame, his high pitched screams filled with terror and hysteria. It was Sunstreaker’s drug …_

 

 _“You didn’t miss much.” Sunstreaker rumbled. ::And call me Sunstreaker_ fraggit _!_ Ripthrough _thinks I killed DC. So you’d better not ever respond to that designation.::_

 _“Right,” Sideswipe sighed as he started moving tense limbs and cables, “I’m more weld than_ plating _right now. Maybe I’m just that fragile.” He sat up, rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands as he tried to adjust to the differences in his frame. ::Whatever you’re not telling me I’ll find out later.:: Sideswipe promised over their bond, a bond that now was little more than a highly shielded comm relay. No emotions came across. It was as if his brother had ceased to exist._

 

“This has ruined my finish.” Sunstreaker griped once the auto-drone finished its repairs. Sideswipe pulled his head out of the memory he had downloaded from his brother a few orns ago. He forced himself to not remember what happened next, forced himself to block out the images Sunstreaker tortured himself with.

Despite all his efforts Sideswipe kept seeing the stolen images from his brother’s memory banks rolling in his processors. Before Sunstreaker had been electro-shocked into stasis, before the guards had come pouring out, before the battle crazed fans in the stands had fallen silent in horrified shock; Sunstreaker had exposed all of Double Cross’s ports – and raped him.

Sideswipe suppressed a shudder. His frame had been destroyed, his life as Double Cross had ended, but Sunstreaker’s attack had obliterated his memory writing capacity after the first hit. In effect, DC had died instantaneously, and Sunstreaker had raped a corpse. It felt surreal to Sideswipe, he felt nothing from what his brother’s memory portrayed. He had watched other mechs rape and murder others before; it had never bothered him.

Sunstreaker, though, he had gone through with something he felt was unthinkable, had suffered immensely every orn since. Sideswipe had been nearly terminated, but while Sunstreaker’s attack had taken Ripthrough’s trophy he had only succeeded in breaking himself.

Sideswipe looked through the partition to his brother’s resting frame. Spin-Out and Double Cross were dead. Now, they had their mission. It was a mission of vengeance. They were going to become the best, forge themselves into death dealers, emissaries of Unicron. They would become the bane of the Decepticons and destroy them all for the murders of Spin-Out and Double Cross.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet came out of forced stasis with a groan. “This is getting annoying.” He sat up, too worn down to even curse anymore. He felt the collar around his neck, felt the wires extending under his plating to interface with his neural lines and the feeding tubes delivering energon and sighed. He was a prisoner, _again_.

He stood up to see what the invisible delivery mechs had given him this time. The bay he worked in was full with grievous casualties. Mechs with frames sparking, fluids leaking through hasty patches and temporary welds. Ratchet stood from the cot he had found himself lying in and moved to look over the new mechs.

How long had he been unconscious this time? How long had he been in this white room of hell? Why did he keep getting taken prisoner in med bays?

His questions would go unanswered as nurse drones began to triage the wounded. Ratchet missed working with real mechs. He only saw the unconscious wounded, and the drones.

Blue floor, blue walls, blue ceiling; the blue medbay room held numerous white med berths manned by white nurse drones. The only colors that came into the bay were those of the stasis-bound patients and the fluids they leaked. This round of patients was worst than most, too many were too close to off-lining.

Ratchet sighed, he hated this part of his job. He shuttered his optics, reached through the data net that filled the room to the processors of several drones. With a purely internal sigh, Ratchet initiated a data sequence to slave the Drones to his processors.

Suddenly he was looking through six sets of optics. Twelve hands obeyed his whims as he worked on the four worst patients acting as both chief surgeon and head nurse when needed. The other drones patched what injuries their programming allowed.

The work was long, how long he toiled Ratchet had no way of counting. The chronometer all mechs had installed in their processors had been removed or deactivated. Ratchet huffed in annoyance and heard the sound in a strange stereo from different parts of the room through the audios of the slaved drones. It felt like he was 3:1:0 again, only this time, he repaired damage to the living instead of creating new lives.

Once the worst of the wounds were sealed he released his slaves and rested. It was a lesson he had learned over many rounds of patients. Once they were stable and on the mend, the invisible mechs sedated Ratchet and took his patients away. He never knew if they onlined; had no knowledge if they survived or if they terminated before they ever woke up.

This time, like the last six rounds of patients before, Ratchet paced his treatment. He drew out the repairs, kept his beds full and undermined the drones at every turn when they started getting a patient too close to full recovery before he was ready. It was selfish and immoral. Ratchet knew the faults isolation had instilled in him, but he was lonely.

In the times he had spent without patients he had tapped every wall, slammed his fists into hard metal plating, and at every turn, he had found only solid walls. This prison seemed impregnable, and only staying out of stasis for more patients would offer him the chance of escape.

“That worked slagging well.” Ratchet groused. Some patients had been swapped out as he recharged. He rubbed a hand down his face plating, scrubbed tiredly down his chevron and pleaded with Primus to just let him go already.

“If you wanted to kill me, leaving me to the Cons would have been kinder.” Ratchet grumbled, optics downcast. He silently wondered if a mech could deactivate from being left alone too long. He sighed, “It's them or me, who dies first?” He hung his head. Ratchet could never leave a patient to die, not even here when he was a prisoner with no hope of escape.

 

* * *

 

“Orion!” Elita bellowed across the battle din. Her spark fluttered in her chest as her lover raced across the field with fresh troops. Behind her, flanking her on all sides, her femmes battled with the heavy Decepticon shock troopers that had overrun this section of the inner core.

“Attack!” Orion yelled over the sounds of combat, his forward troops opened fire from the rear flank, allowing his heavy assault unit to clash electro-shield first into the Decepticon forward division.

With attacks coming from the fore and rear the Decepticons wavered, on the left, some of the weaker ground units hesitated and Orion led the charge to their position. Forming a wedge, the Autobots hacked their way into the morass of heavy frames seared with the purple haze.

Electro-weapons hummed and sparked, laser rifles spat their gouts of energy and hissed as they discharged. Thick plating slammed together, the cacophony deafening; the stench of spilled mech-blood heavy in the air. Around them, the cries of the living, wounded and the dead made a constant white noise to the weapons.

Finally, panting, wounded and reaching his limit, Orion Pax stood at the side of Elita-1. “Casualties?” He asked brusquely.

“Nothing lethal, yet,” Elita replied. “Can your mechs break through?” She asked, nodding towards a thick clot of Decepticons that prevented them from meeting at the landing zone.

“It will be done.” Orion whistled shrilly, a sequence of high-pitched tones of varying length and nodded towards Steelcracker, Streamline, and Straife. The three heavy frontline fighters had come to him some time ago in a much-needed transfer, and now they were the sole reason he was alive at all.

The trio turned their turrets and blasters towards the heaviest clump of Decepticon fighters unleashing their munitions in a tightly coordinated attack. Dust and clouds of debris mushroomed into the sky from their assault. Through the darkness, several femmes leaped at the Decepticons using every ounce of their skill to break through the Decepticon line and bolt towards the LZ.

Orion kept his mechs fighting, used every dirty trick he had learned under Kup to keep the Decepticons guessing at his strategy. Finally, like a blessing from Primus, the femmes’ ship Azusa hovered into view, cannons fired on the melee, giving Orion time to pull out before the Decepticons knew what hit them.

“Welcome aboard,” Elita offered once the mech unit had loaded up.

“It is good to be aboard,” Orion saluted wearily. He wanted time with Elita, they had not seen each other in so long. His spark still pulsed only for her, but his processors wondered if he was even worthy of her attention.

“Commander Orion, come with me please.” Elita turned to the rear of the ship, “What news of the other units?”

“It is grim. Autobots are losing everywhere. There is a rumor of one unit that has found a way to make a difference. They have no designation I have been able to determine, but they appear where the Wreckers are not an option, usually in locations with Neutrals to be saved. They inflict heavy tolls on the Decepticons, save many Autobot and Neutral lives; then they vanish.” Orion sat heavily on the narrow berth in the small office quarters Elita commanded from.

He hung his head, letting stiff cables stretch and groaned before he continued. “The rumors I have encountered have spoken of them working with local units and maneuvering so others get the praise. I believe if Command gets wind of what this unit can do they will be reassigned. That is what happened with Steelcracker’s trio. The unit they were with had great success in routing the Decepticons in Praxus. For their efforts, their team was split up, and their commander sent to Slaughter City.”

Elita nodded, pensive but not surprised at the unknown commander’s ‘reward.’ “It is not so strange. I have heard of other teams being split up after great successes. There is a feeling of Command maneuvering to lose this war.” Then she shook her head, “But Slaughter City? Why are they punishing us for our accomplishments?”

“I do not know, but I believe our report should highlight our losses, and minimalize our victories. Point fingers at your best fighters and call out even their smallest failures. If we maintain an image of strife within our ranks we will not be targeted for reassignment.”

Orion felt every hit he had taken and wondered if his Elita felt nearly as weary. “Orion,” Elita knelt at his side then held him close, “Our teams can handle themselves until we reach Magnus.”

Orion smiled slightly and held her close, feeling the warmth from her frame as her engine sped just slightly. “That they can. Until we return, I will not leave you.” He looked into her optics and pressed closer. This time, there would be no interruptions; he sent a brief message to his second as Elita locked the door. He studied Elita’s optics, remembering how joyful they had been as Ariel. Now, they were more jaded, sage; her devotion unwavering.

Despite their difference in size and rank, Elita held Orion closer. Her systems hummed and she pulled him to her berth. It had been too long since last she had swapped cables with this mech.

 

* * *

 

Ironhide frowned pensively, as he read and reread his orders. “Ya want me ta leave behind a Prahm?” He looked over to the youngster critically, wondering what he was up to. “Ah've protected the last ten Prahams, Ah ain't about ta let go o' this one.”

“Ironhide, is Sentinel Prime still the same mech you guarded when he took on the Matrix?” Prowl asked somberly, his optics calm and unknowable as Ironhide stared him down.

“No, he ain't. Ah knew Sentinel before he was Prham. He'd been a scientist, full o’ wisdom, and knowin’. He had worked himself up to senator before he was chosen. Back then, he made sense.”

“But not anymore?” Prowl pushed, “He escaped your protection when he found me outside of Rhodion. He escaped your guards when he nearly blew Punch's cover in a mission two vorns ago. He has nearly been terminated six times for his own actions in defying the orders you set out to ensure his safety.” Prowl looked Ironhide straight in the optics, “Perhaps it is time to assign him a more – cunning – guardian and focus on maintaining what territory we can still claim as our own.”

Ironhide vented in a huff, red arms crossed over his windshield defiantly, “What do ya get out o' this assignment?”

Prowl flicked a doorwing in a tiny shift that spoke volumes of his derision, “I have standing orders to report to Slaughter City that will be enacted the moment my unit is no longer necessary.” He nearly smirked as Ironhide gaped.

“Slaughter – ! Fine, Ah'm in. Ah promised Kup Ah'd look after ya when he was assigned as Wreckers Commander.” Ironhide paused, optics narrowed in thought, “Who'd ya recommend ta take ovah fer me?”

“Steelhand. He has heavier cannons than you, has worked with younglings escaping their duties while you have guarded normally sensible Primes.” Prowl replied, handing over a data pad with the personnel reassignment filled out, just needing Ironhide's approval as Prime's bodyguard.

“Fine, Ah'll let ya assign him. It'd do him some good ta get combat under that black platin' o' his.” Ironhide signed the request and handed it back, letting Prowl leave without comment.

Ironhide headed out from the base in silence as he followed Prowl to a remote location. It was a small shuttle stowed in the ruins of the outer warehouse district of Iacon. Ironhide stifled a chuckle, how ironic that he had followed Prime out here when their boss had found Prowl so many vorns ago, and now he was following Prowl to find his new assignment.

He looked in the hold noting a mixed bag collection of mechs sitting in silence. Optics tracking he recognized Mirage, Hound, and Trailbreaker, the three had worked with – speak of the pit spawn – Jazz sat in the rear holding court with Smokescreen, Windcharger, Brawn, and Pipes.

“Quite the crew,” Ironhide drawled, wondering just what type of assignments this crew could take on with such disparate mechs and so few soldiers.

“Our soldiers will be returning shortly. These are our officers and special operations,” Prowl informed Ironhide earning himself an impressed snort.

“Ya’ve got yerself a lot of officers here,” Hide replied, still wondering just what he had gotten himself into.

The two newcomers sat near the rear, speaking softly. “Pipes is our medical officer, his rank is low but his hands are steady. Brawn is our heavy lifter for moving supplies, he fights only when necessary. Windcharger is our messenger. Hound and Mirage serve as special operations when Hound is not scouting for us. Trailbreaker is a gunner when needed but mostly he is our defensive strategist.” The black helm nodded towards each mech as he spoke and Ironhide could only listen.

“How’s Jazz fit inta all this?” Hide asked.

“We are co-commanders; same rank, different duties. He takes care of special operations and I strategize with Trailbreaker. Ensuring our plans are three-pronged in the making allows for us to cover more contingencies.”

“And keeps yer glitch from actin’ up.” Hide nodded approvingly, “I’ve kept tabs on ya lad since Sentinel sent ya from our base. Ya’ve done good, and better since ya teamed wid Jazz.”

“He allows me to see the logic in the illogical. Without his perspective, much of what we do would cause me to crash.” Prowl admitted weakly. He could not hide his weaknesses from Ironhide. The older mech had seen him from the beginning, watched him grow up and witnessed several grand crashes from illogical data over the vorns. Prowl paused when was the last time he crashed? It had been several vorns, maybe a decavorn. The realization bolstered his mood; if only this could continue.

 

* * *

 

_-:- This is Ultra Magnus to any Autobots! In need of assistance immediately! Follow encrypted coordinates, please hurry! -:-_

Firestar looked to Steelcracker when the voice on the comm cut off. “Think it’s a trap?”

“Dunno,” Steelcracker shrugged his massive shoulder guard as he summoned his commander to the bridge, beside him Firestar glared at her current co-pilot and summoned Elita.

“What is it?” Elita asked as she stepped into the cockpit with Orion immediately behind her. As they entered the tell-tale odor of ozone and heated circuits filled the small space. Firestar barely kept her faceplates from shifting in a knowing grin.

“Commanders, sorry for interrupting.” Steelcracker started unrepentantly, “Someone is on the comm claiming to be Ultra Magnus, says he’s in trouble.” The large mech’s green finger replayed the message.

“Slaggit,” Elita sighed, “That’s him, take us there.” She turned from the cockpit in stony silence.

“Firestar, Steelcracker, whatever you are thinking will stay between just you two. You will not ruin Elita’s reputation.” Orion spoke softly and left taking with him the last vestiges of ozone and other heady scents of a hard interface.

“Wow, they really need to blow each others’ circuits a few more times. Talk about being stiff.” Firestar snickered.

“Huh, Orion gets lucky with the Femme commander, who knew. Damn, and here I had money riding on the Prime.”

“Ew, Elita would never swap cables with that old timer.” Firestar shuddered. It had been tempting when she had first met the esteemed Prime to offer her services to him. However, as too many others had found out, Prime had optics only for Cybertron. Aside from a few whispers of Sentinel favoring visits to the Decepticons incarceration no one spoke of his love life – or lack thereof.

 

Magnus looked to the black sky overhead and prayed. His team was pinned down, Seekers screamed overhead raining down null rays, bombs and roaring thunder blasts that cracked the sky and rumbled the ground. Most of his unit was on their knees, no longer able to stand from the shaking beneath their peds.

‘Please get here soon.’ Magnus pleaded to the skies. Too many of his mechs were too badly damaged to mend, so many had been lost, their gray frames sprawled across the ground like broken toys. So much loss…

A crackle of thunder and streams of lightning crawled along the belly of the heavy clouds casting eerie dances of light and shadow across the battlefield. Illuminated by the strobing lights the battle seemed to be a series of still images, each ghoulish and terrible as the flying spray of energon and splatter of gore seemed to hang suspended in the ionized air.

“Incoming!” Mangus’ gunner, Arcee called over her shoulder, “Dropship coming in hot from the upper quadrant!”

Worried optics tracked to the coordinates, Magnus gaped. “Autobots!” He bellowed and watched in awe as the small vessel opened fire on the Seekers as bodies dropped to the ground.

“You called?” Elita asked as she jogged up to Magnus’ position with a wry smirk. “I brought a friend.” She nodded to the distant figure of Orion as he led a troop of mechs towards Magnus.

“Orion?” Magnus stood, staring at his brother with amazed optics. It had been almost half a megavorn since he had last seen his brother. The orn Magnus had shipped out as the new Wreckers commander and Orion had just entered boot camp.

“Magnus,” the smaller bot nodded. Nothing about Orion had changed. He looked the same save for a few new weld scars. His optics still held that infernal innocence that made every mech seem to like him instantly. Only – only Magnus realized, Orion now held himself with more pride? Power? Something had changed in his brother, but it was so subtle that Magnus could not place it.

“You are a sight for sore optics,” Magnus grinned widely. “I’ve got orders to clear out the Decepticon base over the ridge. Command sent me with twelve hexad teams. I’ve got three teams left.”

“I don’t like Command’s orders anymore,” Orion spoke softly. “They sent seventy mechs in to do a battalion’s job.”

Magnus snorted, “You got that right. How many mechs did you two bring?”

“We have a total of seventeen.” Elita snarled. “This is a suicide trip, just like what Command did to that poor mech from the Praxan Theater.”

“What mech?” Magnus asked as they jogged to their next staging site that overlooked the Decepticon training base.

“Some bot was able to lead our forces to victory in Praxus. Whoever that poor spark was got the reward of being sent to Slaughter City for her efforts.” Elita spoke softly, “When this is over, and you submit your report, make it as scathing and unfavorable to your troops as possible. Someone in Command is undermining our efforts.”

Magnus nodded, “Got it, now how do we survive this?”

 

* * *

 

It had once been called the Heart of Primus long ago, this massive engine that thrust their planet to eternally sail amongst the stars. For eons it had allowed their once proud race to conquer the universe, sending out their warriors to overthrow other worlds and entire galaxies in their constant quest for more energon. Megatron sneered as he strode along the clear corridor that allowed the plume of energy that drove their planet’s flight to be seen. It was magnificent. And now, he would have complete control over their world. He would defeat Sentinel with this one move. All he needed to do to gain complete victory was aim Cybertron at a larger planet. With the threat of annihilation to their planet-god, Sentinel would bow to Megatron’s rule, at last.

“Megatron!” Sentinel’s voice boomed through the corridor, drawing the tyrant’s gaze to the distant entrance that leads to the planet’s surface. “You cannot do this!”

The gray mech sneered, “Why not Prime? Was this not your intention as well? Change the trajectory of our world, kill the Cybertronians and save Cybertron from us?”

Sentinel froze for a second, his optics widening, “That is my goal, but you would not be satisfied with the destruction of our kind and our eternal wars. You would use the engines to engineer an empire of fear that would span the universe. Megatron, your taste for power is unquenching, and it will destroy you.”

Megatron roared, “Come Prime, prove you can defeat me, and destroy your own troops!”

Sentinel unsheathed his massive double-bladed glaive and charged.

 

Jazz stood beside Prowl on a tall hill. Two battles unfolded before them, turning the former district of Althihex into a quagmire of spilled energon. To their right Ultra Magnus, Elita, and their troops battled the Deceptions protecting their training base. To their left, the standing Prime Armada battled Megatron’s best forces at the base of the massive thrusters for the Planetary Engines. With neither Sentinel nor Megatron in sight, Jazz could only fear that the two commanders were inside the Engines battling for control.

“Jazz, go down to the Engines, find whoever is in command after Sentinel. Find a way to get into his processors and access the command protocols. I’ll lead the majority of our forces to aid in cleaning out the base.” Prowl spoke, his optics cold and focused as he ran simulations on how to keep their forces alive.

Jazz looked down on the battles and shuddered, “Prowler, I know ya’ve got the best tactical sims, but ain’t that a job more suited to the Wreckers? Can’t we get Mangus’ units ta aid us in stoppin’ Megatron from takin’ over the engines?”

Prowl blinked his optic shutters slowly, letting the suggestion run through his tactical computer. He looked up sharply. “Your suggestion is good, but it won’t work as it is. The Engines have a side corridor that leads to the primary control module. We need to get to the secondary one below the Decepticon base.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Jazz asked worriedly.

“Get me access to the Command network, I will show you,” Prowl ordered and turned towards the small rise below them that Magnus was using as his staging grounds.

“Alright.” Jazz sighed and summoned his special forces. They had to infiltrate their own side during a battle with a four mech crew. It would be a walk in the gardens, right.

 

Magnus blinked in confusion as orders appeared on his HUD. “Elita?” He looked to the femme commander during a lull in the fighting.

“I got it too.” She looked around worriedly as all the Autobot forces seemed to waiver. She looked to the base, then to the too many wounded and terminated at her peds. Their initial orders had been a suicide mission, these at least had a chance of succeeding. “Do it.”

“Retreat!” Magnus’ bellow rang across the field and through the comms simultaneously. The stragglers from their small collection of units pulled back to a low rise just outside the base’s firing range. Intakes cycling from the long battle Elita, Magnus and Orion knelt together.

“I’m taking my unit to the eastern gate?” Orion looked over his orders. “I think I’m a decoy.”

“I think we all are.” Magnus replied, “I’m to set up explosives outside the main entrance. Either my unit will get demolished by the Cons or we might just hem their ground forces in.”

“This is definitely a decoy strategy. Someone is using us to cover up whatever they’re doing.” Elita frowned. “I’m to target the launch pads and destroy any aerial units coming from the base. I don’t like this, but I have to admit their tactician has manifolds.”

 _-:- Proceed immediately -:-_ The voice along the secure Autobot command channel was cold, emotionless and nearly monotone. Orion shuddered.

“Are we sure Soundwave hasn’t hacked our network?” He asked of his brother and lover looking worriedly between the taller bots.

“I don’t know,” Elita held Orion’s face tenderly in her optics for just a moment before standing tall and straightening her shoulders, “We will find out if we survive this. Autobots, move out!”

  

The civil war had raged for megavorns, somehow neither side neither winning nor losing as their world, their very planet suffering the greatest consequence. Cybertron was failing, and it was showing. Vast cities that had once lit up the night to the point that the very stars were blotted into darkness now were empty husks, their glittering lights and crystalline walls now lying in so many heaps of rubble upon the too cold ground. It was disheartening and filled all with despair, and yet Megatron, the sadistic leader of the Decepticons continued the fight, killing all in his path that had not joined him immediately. Anyone who was Neutral or Autobot was exterminated. It was policy and one most of his soldiers practiced with glee. Most of the remaining Neutrals had been gathered to secret locations, they were safe for now. It was enough; it had to be. The Autobots had little more to give.

Prowl stood back as he looked over the broken, cratered landscape surrounding the Decepticon training base. The rise he stood on gave him the best vantage point to observe the Autobots fighting below him as if they were pieces on a game board. The similarities made Prowl’s tanks want to heave. He was playing with the lives of living mechs.

 _-:- Magnus, Elita, Orion commence your attacks. Jazz, aid MineRunner in combating the Decepticons and keep them out of the Engines. -:-_ Prowl allowed his battle computer to play out numerous scenarios and stored them for quick access. With part of his processors now dedicated to monitoring Autobot frequencies, he summoned his portion of their small unit. Ironhide stood beside him, the minibots, Brawn, and Windcharger, stood arrayed before Prowl acting as guards as he planned their attacks.

Behind the small group, Field General Afterburn and his thirty-crew complement were arrayed in sentry formations surrounding their position. “Afterburn, divide your mechs into three groups. I need two larger forces to split between aiding Jazz and assisting the three commanders around the base. Give them your fastest and heaviest troops. A smaller group will come with me. We will take the secondary Engine control room.”

“What ‘bout Sentinel? Ah, know he slipped Steelhand’s watch.” Ironhide rumbled, fists clenched to keep from fretting.

Prowl paused, hesitating for a moment that filled his soldiers’ lines with icy dread. “Sentinel made his decision. Right now we are safer giving Megatron what he wants.”

“What?” Hide menaced, fists balled until his joints creaked in protest as he stared down at the smaller tactician, “Ya want us ta just leave our Praham with Megatron?”

Prowl looked up unflinchingly, “It is your choice Ironhide, protect our forces by allowing Sentinel to distract Megaron, or tip our hand and give Megatron all of Cybertron.”

“Fine, ya get it yer way.” Hide growled, a silent threat hanging in the air.

 _-:- Autobots, roll out. -:-_ Prowl ordered as he led the advance towards a hidden tunnel access under the base. His unit, all of twelve mechs, slunk into the darkness their frames ran dark, their optics dim, no light emanated from their unit allowing them to blend into the shadows of eternal night. As they moved in a slow march that seemed to take forever Prowl kept his comm on, passively letting reports trickle in. His battle systems monitored the field and projected maneuvers; occasionally he sent a condensed data burst to one of the commanders to ensure the greatest number of Autobots survived this battle.

“Here!” Windcharger called in a harsh whisper. They reached the tunnel and slunk in, their peds noisy in the heavy silence. “How much further?”

“There should be a control pad in sixteen lengths.” Prowl spoke up, hoping the vague map he had been able to pull from old data was correct. A part of his processors silently mused on why they used such stringent measurements of time, and yet had only three units of length. The megamile: the distance a Seeker could fly at top speed in an astrosecond. The length: the span of a Guardian’s stride. The micromile: the standard height of a minibot’s frame. Absently Prowl wondered if their scientists had ever wondered why they had such strange ways of measuring their world.

“One length,” Prowl announced softly. They rounded the next turn in the tunnel, the control panel glowing softly in the darkness. Windcharger moved to the panel and attached an override cable. Once the cable’s display flashed twice he handed it to Prowl, giving the tactician space to plug in.

Prowl slotted the cable into a cranial jack, letting his firewalls buffer with the control panel’s defenses then broke through the coding and through the door’s locks. Immediately the massive blast door lifted revealing the Planetary Engines.

They were huge. Something resembling a spark sat suspended in the middle of the massive chamber. Thick cables led away from the spark leading to gigantic magnetoplasmadynamic engines. The exhaust of the engines shot down the clear corridor leading to the planet’s surface. Alongside the exhaust chamber ran the access tunnel. Prowl paused, he could see Megatron and Sentinel battling within, the two – tyrants – warring over who won the glory of destroying their race.

‘We give him what he wants.’ Prowl let the thought, one that should be unthinkable, move through his processors. Yes, they would give Sentinel to Megatron, and to uphold the Autobots’ integrity, they would attempt a rescue at the last possible moment. It would be his dark secret, one that if revealed to the majority of the troops would utterly destroy the Autobots, and ensure Decepticon victory without making Megatron lift a single finger.

“Windcharger, get out there, find Elita, Orion or Ultra Magnus. Relay these orders.” He removed a data chit from his arm slot and passed it to the minibot. Once Windcharger had left he turned to the consul. It would take time to lock down the engines.

‘Ya could always set the planet ta stop.’ Jazz’s thoughts interrupted Prowl’s movements. It was an idea and a good one. ‘If Cybertron is kept in a holdin’ pattern in the middle of nowhere, then Megatron can’t get us within striking distance of another planet and our fight stays here.’

Prowl smiled and let his approval flit across the remote data line. Ever since Paraxus, Prowl and Jazz had kept the data line in constant use. Prowl could not afford to lock up on the field and Jazz could not afford to lose his tactical annalist when they had so much to do and so few troops to do them with.

‘Very good. Now, Megatron will have to either destroy all automated controls of the Engines, or he will have to break through my encryptions. Both are possibilities, it just depends on how far he is willing to go for complete control.’

Jazz’s amused presence washed across Prowl’s processors, ‘Don’t hedge yer bets too strongly there Prowl, we don’t know what Megatron’s willing ta do for power.’

Prowl huffed silently as he finished inputting his encryptions. Jazz was correct Megatron was unpredictable and willing to go to any lengths to obtain whatever desires that dwelt within his hollow spark.

  

Ultra Magnus bolted from his position watching the Decepticon base front entrance. Their Prime was in danger! Something deep within Magnus urged him to run faster, around him his troops kept pace, each as desperate to protect their Prime. It didn’t make sense in a way. Their Prime was no longer the leader they had welcomed in the beginning, but Sentinel was still their Prime and every Autobot had sworn an oath to defend their Prime to the very last vestiges of their spark.

Magnus’ unit barreled through the standing battlefield before the entrance to the Engines. His presence bolstered the Autobot forces and caused the Decepticons to waiver. As his unit tore across the open field his mechs blasted any Con’s that crossed their path. Their ferocity and desperation forced a break in the Decepticons’ ranks, allowing them to burst through and overtake the Engines.

Magnus barreled across the last lengths of the battlefield, ignoring his warring comrades all around him. In an instant, he raced into the access corridor and felt his spark plummet even as his peds sped up to a dead run. He knew he wouldn’t make it, knew the distance was too great.

Ahead of him, Megatron held Sentinel by the face, lifting their Prime into the air high enough his red peds kicked futilely in the air. Magnus pulled his cannons from sub-space, allowing his shoulder turrets to target Megatron. Several volleys were fired at the Decepticon master, Magnus’ troops targeting Megatron simultaneously. With the barrage Megatron was thrown from his peds, his hand slipping from Sentinel’s plating.

Magnus felt hope rise in his spark, Sentinel stood from where he had landed. With a proud roar of challenge, Sentinel charged Megatron, optics blazing in battle fury that gleamed with madness. Magnus felt time slow, watched as if from megamiles away, as Sentinel advanced at a dead run on Megatron. He saw, spark clenching in agonizing certainty, as Megatron reached his arm out, a blade extending just as Sentinel approached and impaled himself blindly through the spark.

Time sped up, throwing Magnus from its thrall. The unmistakable, sickening crunch of metal as Sentinel impaled himself on Megatron’s arm blade echoed achingly loud in the corridor – then all Pit broke loose.

Megatron leaped into the air, his frame nearly scraping the high ceiling of the corridor as he cackled his victory and fled. Autobots poured into the access tunnel and Ultra Magnus looked up to see a small band of Autobots on the opposite clear blast door between the corridor and the Engines control room standing guard in case the worse had befallen. In that moment Magnus felt gratitude to the unknown mech that was giving the orders, whoever it was had just saved them from losing Cybertron to the Cons – but not even that great mech could save Sentinel Prime.

The moment Sentinel fell, the instant his spark guttered, the Autobots fell into a pained hush. They felt Sentinel’s demise, felt the Matrix’s presence dim and knew that another Prime had ceased to carry their guiding light.

Within the control room Ironhide trembled in fury, -:-If Ah find out ya planned ta have Sentinel fall, Prowl, it’ll be yer last moment alive.-:-

Prowl looked over his shoulder at Ironhide, his faceplates stoic despite feeling the same agonizing loss that afflicted every other Autobot nearby. -:-No, Ironhide, it was not my plan.-:- Prowl replied somberly and wondered if he had just told a very convincing lie.

With a heavy spark, Prowl scanned the Command network and took stock of their casualties. He sucked in a deep intake and accessed the network-wide communications grid. -:- Autobots, our Prime has fallen. Retreat. -:-

He narrowed his communications grid, accessing the frequencies of only those units in the Decepticon Training Base Theater. -:- Autobots, our Prime has fallen. The nearest safe zone is Rura Penthe, rendezvous at that location. Move out. -:-

A wave of hesitation spread across the ranks like a ripple in a methane lake. Mechs looked to one another, none wanting to follow the cold monotone, and none wanting to leave their Prime laying at the peds of Ultra Magnus in the now silent corridor to the Engines.

“Autobots, roll out!” Magnus cried into the silence as he gathered the fallen frame of their Prime, folded down and slowly moved through the corridor. As he passed all others fell to one knee, helms bowed to honor the lost pulse of the Matrix and folded down. Slowly the Autobot army followed Magnus and Elita. Orion held back, his units formed the rear guard that followed once they knew the Decepticons barricaded within the training base would not boil out to attack the slow Autobot retreat.

* * *

 

Orns passed in silence. Elita wondered if she would go mad. The Autobot convoy, with Magnus protected in the center of their column, moved through several layers of the honeycombed underground byways as they moved ever towards the abandoned prison facility Rura Penthe. Elita worried, her gears grinding softly.

The last mechs to leave that Primus-forsaken place had been the Auxillary Wreckers. She shuddered as the memory of Sentinel freeing the Autobot war criminals resurfaced. She didn’t want to remember them, didn’t want to see the Thetacons and their horrid faces striding from Rura Penthe with their prideful swaggers and their sickening habit of spitting lubricant and oil.

She remembered them, the entire three-mech murder crew, Roadspin, Leadfoot, and Topspin. It was rumored that once, before her time, they had been genius engineers and friends of the notorious Wheeljack. Then the war had enveloped them. The stories told of how the engineers kept their sanity and their intelligence as the war progressed, but they lost all mercy, compassion, and sympathy when they had lost their tribe. Elita shuddered.

Ahead, rising from the disturbingly pristine landscape, stood Rura Penthe. It was gigantic, built to accommodate every Autobot frame style from guardian to micro-drone. At the center stood seven pillars arrayed in a circle, one each for the known seven guardians who had joined the Autobot forces – as a precaution. Before them, rings of buildings rose against the stars, each large enough to hold transport and convoy-class frames. Elita shuddered again thinking of Magnus locked into one of those buildings, trapped within a cell just large enough for him to stand in. Other rows of buildings arrayed out in concentric rings from the center, each a step down in frame size. The outermost building had its inner walls dotted with tiny drawers that slid out, each small enough to hold cassette-sized and smaller mechs within.

When she had traveled with Sentinel to this forsaken place she had suffered visions of the smallest of their race trapped within those drawer-like prisons left to rust and slowly terminate – forgotten.

“Elita?” She started and let her sensors fall on Orion’s standing frame. “We’ve arrived.”

“Sorry, bad memories.” She replied softly as she stood and swallowed tightly as she reached her full height. She cursed her own weakness. She wanted Orion to be taller than her like he used to be when she had been Ariel. She wanted so badly to be folded into his embrace, to be held and sheltered from the war, and her memories.

“Are you alright?” Orion asked, his still innocent optics looking up to her’s in concern from where he stood at her hip. She smiled; he always made her feel cherished. It was so rare that they got any time together regardless of their stolen moments on the trek here as they slipped into the darkness just to stand close to each other. It was all the affection they could show in the open, all they dared where the troops could see them.

“I think I’m just tired, like everyone else.” She smiled a small crooked smile and touched his cheek plating. She wanted to be held, to hold him and feel their sparks pulsing so close together. She stood straighter and dropped her hand, then turned to look for the one mech who had been running this show.

-:- Autobots: all mechs with medical training convene at the following coordinates. Set up triage and repair what you can. Wounded, make your way to these coordinates for medical assistance. Logistics, search Rura Penthe for energon. Uninjured troops, I need four-mech squads to cover the logistics crew. Commanders, convene inside at these coordinates. -:- The voice cut off, once again the entire force wavered, their optics looking to one another filled with a silent fear: ‘Were they being led by another Soundwave?’

“You have your orders, move out!” Elita called over the nervous rumbling. Her words echoed by Ultra Magnus and Orion finally goaded the small army into slowly moving. She looked around, optics squinting at Tactician Deftwing and Commander Gullblade of Prime Squad. Those two were not supporting the commands.

She stiffened, wanting to rail at them. Where had they been when her femmes had been getting slagged by Cons at every turn? Where had their Prime been when Autobots were falling in droves and Prime never received a scratch? She moved to rail at them, her spark burning with her fury only to pause when the two stiffened and watched as they somewhat cowered where they stood before barking at their troops to follow the orders given. She watched with mounting curiosity and dread, what did the mystery commander hold over them?

“Come on, Orion, Elita, we should go.” Magnus moved to follow his orders, ever the good soldier. Elita smiled slightly to herself. “What?” The blue convoy-class asked stalwartly.

“Just remembering, before. You never listened to any mech's orders Magnus. You were your own bot. Now, you are the best soldier out there.” Elita replied, and worried at Orion’s unusual silence.

“My apologies. I’m not feeling myself right now.” Orion spoke softly as his taller brother and lover’s optics fell on him. “Did I ever tell you that Sentinel had asked me to be a brother to him?”

“Sentinel – what?” Elita looked down on her lover perplexed. She glanced at Magnus and found him to be just as bewildered.

Orion held up his hand, showing a small sigil neither Elita nor Magnus had noticed since their reformat to their larger frames. “I saw him one orn, in the Hall of Ancients. He had looked so sad, but I didn’t know what I could do. So, we walked, he spoke of wisdom and compassion and being a good leader when it was the hardest thing to do. He treated me like a friend and asked me to be the brother he never had."

“When I said I’d be honored, he shook my hand, and this appeared.” Orion smiled sadly, optics shimmering in grief before he looked up to his family, “It hurts so much to lose him, despite what he became. I don’t think my spark could hurt worse, except to lose either of you.”

“Love,” Elita breathed and knelt to hold her lover close. She didn’t know why Orion had never told her of his bond with their Prime, but she understood. In the positions Magnus and she had been pressed into they could not afford to care too deeply for their supreme commander. Now, with him gone, she wondered if her thoughts had been wrong, and uncharitable. If Sentinel had had more bots around him that treated him like family, would he have ever strayed so far from the Autobot ideals they fought to uphold?

“You were right to not speak of this, brother,” Magnus said softly as he knelt at Elita’s side and placed his massive hand on Orion’s shivering back plating. “Elita and I – developed opinions of Sentinel that would have been cruel for you to hear.”

“I already know them,” Orion sighed and pulled away, glancing in all directions along the corridor they stood in, ensuring none would interrupt them. “I heard the other commanders talking, you were not alone. Sentinel did change over the vorns. He sent me so far away from him that I could not help him to carry his burdens. Somehow I think he had been this way before we met him.”

Magnus and Elita shared a worried glance. They did not know why they had been sent to the Decepticon base on their suicide mission. Nor did they know why so many troops had appeared at the Planetary Engines when they did, but Sentinel had to have planned their maneuvers and if he did, what had been his goal? The trio shared a worried glance; if Sentinel had planned something at the Engines then he likely had planned the attack on their warehouse so long ago. Suddenly chills ran up their back struts.

“We cannot change what has happened. Let us go to this commander and see what goals he has for us.” Magnus shook off his foreboding first and led his brother and friend through the corridors to the designated spot. They marched to their destination, a guard station with solid walls and a central table covered with digital displays.

They pushed through the open doors to the wide, white room within. Arrayed around the table stood Field General Bombshock, Tactician Deftwing, Commander Gullblade and Tactician Skids. The four commanders from the main Prime Command and standing Autobot Military glared at the three new commanders who had always been more of special mixed units than true military and it made most of them feel that Prime had given the three special treatment, much like the assorted Wreckers Crews.

“So, are you the mech in charge Magnus?” Deftwing growled once they entered the impromptu war room. The minibot tactician had always had a bad attitude, Magnus mused as he kept his face impassive. He refused to give the other commanders fuel for the rumors that always circulated through Autobot Command like a bad line of code.

“No, I am.” The cold voice from all the command transmissions spoke. As one the seven commanders looked behind them to see one Paraxan with black and white plating standing in rigid attention next to a Polyhexan-build white and black mech standing just beside him. “My designation is Prowl.” Behind the two smaller frames marched in Ironhide and Field General Afterburn standing as sentinels over the black and white mechs.

“Ironhide?” Elita asked aghast, why was the guard with these two small frames and not guarding the frame of their fallen leader.

“Ah’m here cause this one asked me ta be.” Hide answered with a fierce scowl as he nodded towards Prowl, “Ah reassigned Steelhand ta guard Praham.” Ironhide kept his vocalizers mute on how Jazz had found Steelhand’s frame on the ground locked in stasis. Or how the big black mech had been surrounded by scraplets, or that his last waking memory had been of their esteemed leader shoving a stasis prod between the plates of his armor, knocking him offline. Ironhide wanted to rage on about how many times he had been given the slip by the Prime. Or how often he had to wade into a losing battle to save their oh so valiant leader from his own stubborn stupidity.

Prowl stepped forward, casting a slight glance at Ironhide as he passed. On the command line, a data packet appeared for the other commanders to view. “This intel outlines my reasons for being here, along with our purpose for being on the field this orn. Decepticon chatter spoke of Megatron commandeering the Planetary Engines, however, there was no notice Sentinel would be there. When we arrived we determined to split up our troops, access the command network and override the suicide missions too many units had been assigned to.” Optics raised from the table to look Prowl over, he was cold, none of the commanders could read him, nor get a feel for what he was planning despite his in-depth intelligence report.

Magnus looked at the file, optics widening, “You were the one slated for Slaughter City.”

Prowl nodded silently. Widely splayed doorwings remained steady, unflinching at the old order as his voice sounded in its flat monotone. “Should my unit cease to be an asset to the Autobots I will be remediated to Slaughter City by force.” Unflinching optics met each of the others’ in the room, at each glance the other taller commanders all looked away.

“We have no Prime to guide us, what do you recommend?” Elita asked challengingly. Arms crossed, broad pink shoulders squared she faced off against Prowl ready to have him sent to Slaughter City if it kept her femmes alive.

“Who runs Command?” Prowl countered, every mech and femme received orders from Command. No designation was ever associated with the title, and even Sentinel had bowed to its orders. Blank stares met his question.

“That is classified!” Bombshock snarled, his optics raged in offense that the mere level-one tactician would ask such a thing.

“Which means no one in this room knows who, or what is giving us our orders. Does it not seem strange that three good commanders would be sent on suicide missions in one orn? Is it not strange that our Prime attempts to sneak into the Planetary Engines with only one field general and thirty troops? Or how our injured never return after being evacuated from the battle site?”

“Have we all become so numb ta the demands of the war that we’ve lost all our processing capacity?” Ironhide asked, interrupting Prowl, unapologetic at his intrusion. “Ah knew our commanders were bein’ shoved through boot too fast, but I never expected ya ta forget our First Prerogative!”

“What prerogative?” Jazz asked helm canted to the side in disquiet, “Cause, we never got that data stream, mech.”

“What?” Hide turned to look at his current commanders, jaw slack as Prowl, Jazz and Afterburn shook their helms. “Slaggin’ Pits!”

“The First Prerogative is 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings.'” Orion spoke softly, “It was the first thing Sentinel taught me, and apparently the first thing he refused to honor.”

“So, no one really knows who this Command we’ve been taking orders from is?” Afterburn asked, “Cause they took away our best medic from me decavorns ago. I checked with the base he was supposed to be transferred to and they had never heard of him. We’ve got numerous wounded and a medic all MIA, and you all want to just keep following orders from nameless mechs?”

“Alright, tactician, what’s your plan?” Bombshock asked, pale white faceplates creasing with his frown.

“We have a tight window in which to accomplish this. Everyone must be synched to the timeline.” Prowl sent another data packet along their encrypted network and waited, a tiny smirk fleeting and unnoticed touched his lips and fled. The other commanders stared at him once more, this time, he knew there would be fewer casualties.

“You want us to what?” Ironhide gasped once he read the data. He looked around, gauging the other mechs in the room and noticed, uncomfortably, that only Jazz seemed unsurprised. “This is yer plan? Ya want us ta bomb Command?”

“I want us to observe the location of Command and determine its threat level, and keep the bombing of it as a potential operation should it be needed.” Prowl spoke flatly, “I will gladly take any alternatives.”

“Give us three orns,” Magnus finally spoke, “Let us analyze the data for ourselves. When we reconvene we will put it to a vote.”


	10. A New Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What makes a Prime? How is a mech chosen? Can there be False Primes? Orion feels broken, but answers are coming.

Ironhide stared across the planning session. He had to give the upstarts credit; they held court as if they were already in charge. The senior commanders had all seemed to take this in stride. No one accused Prowl or Jazz of usurping command; well – he looked to Deftwing and the small cluster of mechs surrounding him. Some were not as impressed.

Ultra Magnus stood to the side, much like Ironhide, he was standing guard. Occasionally the big mech would speak softly, deep voice ringing as he added his comments. His silent presence served to bolster Prowl’s standing in the optics of the other commanders. Few were willing to face down a mech that had held more respect than their fallen Prime.

Ironhide kept his mouth shut, he mostly agreed with Prowl.

“This is the current location of the gladiator rings. Intelligence reports have indicated that all of Megatron’s best lieutenants have come from here over the last several vorns. He’s using this as an intensive training location. Interrogations from Fortress Maximus have revealed two names consistently: Sigma-Red and Sigma-Yellow. This pair has been directly involved in every lieutenant’s selection by Megatron.”

The room filled with murmurs. The implications were terrible. Something terrifying enough to earn Megaton’s respect dwelt within the rings, churning out terrifying depraved monsters. The fear etched in every mech’s spark: What if these trainers joined the fight? With those two on the field, Megatron would become unstoppable.

Magnus finally stopped the chatter. “The rings will have to be destroyed, we have no choice. Sigma-red and yellow will have to be detained and interrogated. Everything those two have done to train Megatron’s best troops, how Megatron has kept those two loyal; these are things we must know.”

“I would like Ironhide to lead the assault on the Rings. Ultra Magnus, you wanted time to think about my earlier request: I am asking for you to do a reconnaissance mission to investigate Command, its location, and activities.” Prowl met Ultra Magnus’ gaze.

“My rank prevents me from ordering you to do this. However, it is a duty I would prefer to see you take. Your team is equipped for longer forays.”

Magnus glanced at Elita, taking in the faint brightening of her optics. “I will do this.”

Prowl nodded, “Thank you.”

*|*

Wheeljack looked up from his workbench and cycled a deep intake. He missed Ratchet. His optics tracked to a small window staring out at the stars and a slivered edge of the dark planet of Cybertron. From up here on Torus-Nine, a satellite space station orbiting their homeworld, he conducted research on weapons development. His work was to find new ways to kill mechs more easily.

“How far the lofty have fallen.” He grunted sadly. His work used to make him proud. Now, he could not remember why he had thought weapons development had appealed to him in the first place. His favorite project had been the horrifically flawed attempt to create new mechs with Ratchet. Sparks murdered in their magnetically shielded casings, somewhere between harvesting from Vector Sigma to Iacon the sparks had been damaged. The frames never powered up. Ratchet had been devastated.

The medics here were soft. They catered to every wound. He missed being yelled at for blowing himself up. Huffer, the young minibot Ratchet had picked up in Rodion when they had first opened the clinic in Dead End, was one of the softest medics on board. Huffer had a good spark, he was great with the more timid mechs, but he wasn’t Ratchet. Wheeljack constantly felt like a traitor for that comparison. Huffer was family, but he could never compare to Ratchet.

His processors spun in silence, dredging past times with his spark-brother. They had been through so much, and yet they had now spent more time apart than they ever had together. Had Ratchet forgiven him for taking Huffer to the Autobots? Would they ever sit together for energon again? Thoughts tracking through past moments of happiness focused his optics inward, missing a tiny streaking object passing by the port window outside.

Time slipped by before Wheeljack finally shook his helm and focused once more on his work. Hands picking up tools he paused as a chill foreboding raced up his spinal array. His tools discarded once more he stood from the bench. Something was wrong, but he could not tell what. He moved towards the sealed blast door that protected the base from his experiments and triggered the lock release. As if waiting for that cue, an explosion rocked the base.

*|*

The crowd exploded in roars of approval as energon splattered across the arena. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe faced a five-mech gestalt. “Is this even fair?” Sideswipe panted.

“On your left.” Sunstreaker darted to the right, throwing himself behind the laser-tipped halberd in his hands. He raced between the gestalt’s legs, slamming the blade into the join between the mechs that formed the leg and torso.

A multi-tonal scream ripped through the air. Sideswipe leered and launched himself onto the giant’s shoulder. His sword ripped into the connections holding the mech that formed the right arm onto the body. The arm released and Sunstreaker pounced. The mech never had time to transform.

Sunstreaker stood on the first corpse and roared. Sideswipe smirked darkly as their opponent covered its sparking stump. The gestalt held together, the four remaining mechs somehow managing to maintain their bond despite the agony of the first death.

Sideswipe flipped his sword and slashed at the neck join. The giant reminded of his presence flung him off. Impact sent blackness and sparkles across his vision. Another roar ripped through his audios as three screams sounded along with the transformation sequence. He forced himself onto his peds and smirked at the remaining three fighters. Torso and legs, now three separate mechs, scowled at Sunstreaker. Sideswipe grinned to himself. Being the plain one was so painful. Everyone seemed to forget about him. He grinned wider, leapt high and brought his blade down on Torso’s head. Energon gushed from the wound, carrying shattered processor bits and metal shavings.

The remaining two mechs each launched themselves at one of their attackers. Sideswipe chuckled, “So much for divide and conquer.” The audience was on the edge of their seats. Screams and jeers filled the air. No one wanted a drawn out fight. The fans had the scent of mech-blood, and they were thirsty. With a flash of thought he sent a kill sequence across the bond to his brother. It was time to end this. As one, the brothers charged.

Silence drowned the ring. The final corpse fell at Sideswipe’s feet as Sunstreaker's hand dripped mech-blood from the last mech’s still pulsing spark clutched in his fingers. Together the pair glanced over the ring, taking in the energon splattered in processed gray, undigested pink and spark pulsing blue as the crowd finally erupted into deafening screams of approval.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, Team Sigma, knew they were the best. Outside of the ring they were known only as Sigma Red and Sigma Yellow. Fans adored them. Decepticons feared them. Other gladiators knew they looked death in the face when they entered the ring with them. Few had beaten them; none could kill them. When an opponent survived them, that Decepticon left the ring for the battlefield with honors straight from Megatron’s hand.

They shared a glance, optics of unhinged icy blue-white meeting ferocious light azure. They were the only mechs in the rings with blue optics, and so far the only ones nobody could get rid of. They roared their victory and swaggered back to their cages, knowing that elsewhere in the cages surrounding the rings their future opponents cowered.

Once back in their cells, alone and unguarded – guards were expensive to replace, especially after they were done with them – the pair felt the battle lust vanish. Immediately they had to fight their frames to keep from sagging. They hated this, dealing death every orn against others regardless of faction. It had long ago eaten away at their sparks. They only continued to fight from fear of being alone. Neither one looked at the other as they entered their silent cells.

With a last sigh, they relaxed onto hard berths and trembled. Their battle replayed itself in their minds. Each attack that came too close, each hit that was felt to deeply. Every time they entered the ring their opponents got that much better. One orn, one of them would fall – and the other would be alone.

*|*

Wheeljack cursed loudly as a laser blast scored his face shield. Too many more hits like that and he'd be eating them. It was not a prospect he was willing to try any time soon. “Fire!” He yelled, hoping that one inventor and a score of scientists could hold out against the Decepticons overrunning the Torus-Nine research station. This was the last Autobot science facility, when this was lost any hope of keeping up with Decepticon tech would vanish.

“'Jack, I have an idea.” Perceptor called, his once rich and educated voice had changed. Now he was hard, his voice filled with angry venom that might never vanish. “Let them have the station.”

Wheeljack almost froze at the suggestion _give away the station?_ It was almost mind numbing – almost. As Wheeljack continued to return fire his optics narrowed into fine slits as he took apart the idea and finally recognized what Perceptor was saying.

“Autobots, evac now through blue ward!” Wheeljack hollered and he threw a frag grenade over his shoulder as he ran, leaving the Decepticons to stumble in the haze and light. They ran, what was left of the once thousand strong science research team. Now they numbered only thirty. Too many had been lost this orn.

“Percy,” A soft voice panted from the heavily shielded blue room, “Take the rest – go. I will … keep them … here.” Jack and Percy glanced into the room, their sparks sinking at Mavlav, their brightest femme researcher, and Percy's lover.

Swallowing tightly Percy could only nod. They were out of time. “To the shuttle!” They ran, Percy's optics filling with a new, darker pain. Huffer ran straight for the cockpit, taking the controls and launching before everyone had even strapped in. They had to flee.

Mavlav waited, her optics dimming on the dead mech's switch in her hand. As long as she lived she would hold down the button, but if the Decepticons killed her, or she died first she would take them and this station with her.

Heavy treads drew nearer, vile voices filled with cruelty and battle lust rebounded along the corridor. Then she finally saw the evil Shatter Star. The Seeker Commander and Megatron's faithful lieutenant grinned vilely as his optics fell upon her broken frame. “Look mechs, they left us a pleasure slave as a gift.” Shatter Star's nasty grin widened, optics filled with a dangerous lust as his optics devoured her lightly shielded data ports.

As Shatter Star approached Mavlav could only smile. The entire Decepticon assault group was here. “Yes, Shatter … they left me … as a present.” She panted, cringing from the pain wracking her systems. She waited, let Shatter kneel over her, the others stepping close all wanting to feel her plating and unwilling to wait their turns. “Give Unicron … my … regards…”

Her thumb left the switch. A flash of brilliant light and searing agony –

*|*

Orion Pax felt his frame shudder within the temporary quarters, an empty, open cell within the prison facility. His fingers moved deftly over the maintenance of his rifle. His hands kept moving, motion habitual from the long vorns of fighting allowed him to focus on the swirling thoughts in his head.

So much had happened that he could not understand. The suicide battle had tipped him off. Why would command send so many on missions guaranteed to fail? The loss of Sentinel Prime, the mech he had considered as a brother, was too fresh to wrap his processors around. He had worshipped their leader in the beginning. Their Prime had been so strong, once.

Despite the many failings Sentinel had, his passing tore an open wound into the spark of every Autobot. The spark deep coding to follow the Prime made every soldier seethed at his loss. The rumors of Sentinel being a false Prime were now moot. The Autobots now fought without a Prime, and they hungered for vengeance.

For reasons unknown, the succession weighed heavily upon Orion’s processor, and though he had been far from where Sentinel had fallen, he still felt responsible somehow. Sentinel had kept him nearby at first, guarding and protecting him throughout the troubled transition from civilian to military life, taking him under his wing, teaching him of leadership and duty to one’s troops. Orion had taken those lessons to spark, integrating them into his daily life, hoping to one orn make unit leader. It would prove that Sentinel had not wasted his time on him when others said he had not been worth the effort. ~~~~

He set aside the rifle as he rose to his feet, needing to walk the corridors and clear his processors. This time the Decepticons had hurt everyone. Orion sighed and rubbed his helm as he walked. Rumors were spreading like a virus through the ranks, all within the regular troops, of the silent tactician, Prowl, feeling nothing at Sentinel’s loss.

Orion shook his head. The tactician, it was rumored, had a spark of space ice to never even pause to mourn Sentinel’s passing. Nothing affected the cold-sparked slagger, apparently. Pax sighed; he knew it was a lie. Prowl had at one point worshipped Sentinel, and from the troops such thoughts were uncharitable, especially as Orion remembered how Sentinel had found Prowl lost and confused among the ruins of one of the early attacks. No, Orion could not find fault in the young Paraxan; he had gotten them to a secure location, with minimal losses – minimal. He gave a harsh barking laugh under his breath at that. How could anyone list losing their Prime, their _brother_ , as a minimal loss?

He looked to the rifle in his hands, he had no memory of grabbing it, and slipped his weapon into the subspace compartment in his arm, the empty hallways lined with sealed energy chambers holding the sparks and processors of the worst of Cybertron’s criminals from over the ages echoed in his passing. Before the war, before the madness, he had been a simple historian and a dockworker, recording the cycles and important happenings therein late into the recharge breems after loading transport-bots and working through the early breems. He had often visited the snarling medic Ratchet in the nearby clinic, bringing low grade energon pulled from transports not worthy of being sold as a donation to the medic’s efforts.

He missed the snarky medic who had acted as a sounding board when times had been rough. It was Sentinel himself who had convinced Orion to start making history instead of merely recording it as he stayed near the temple of the Ancients. Somehow, the Prime had bypassed Pax's pacifistic programming and made him into a warrior. He had always wondered why Sentinel had requested that he sign up. Besides, what could a simple worker bot offer besides being just another warm mech on the field?

He strode silently, passing mixed groups of mechs and femmes, none getting too close to either wall as if afraid to touch the sealed cells and release criminals into their world gone mad. Orion still felt so small next to his superior officers as Ironhide, Magnus and Bombshock passed him by. They all seemed so worn, Ironhide looked broken. His duty had once been to guard the Prime, and somehow he felt had failed, maybe because he had allowed Steelhand to replace him as the guard to Prime. Pax could not blame the old front-liner, the bot had been a guard before the wars, and was older than most could remember, except for Kup who seemed ancient even next to Ironhide. Ironhide's loyalty was unquestionable, and yet he held the greatest guilt for Sentinel’s loss.

Once past them, Pax kept going, finding solitude in the silence. He had often paced when he had entered the Military Academy. It had helped while his training had forced him to counter his programming, learning to fight instead of fleeing. The hallway was silent, calming, until he found himself in front of the highly sheltered Hall of Ancients.

Pax blinked. This was impossible. The Ancients were in Iacon Base. How could they be here? He looked up and down the corridor, suddenly realizing that the metal hall changed color just around the door. Somehow the Iacon door was here in the prison. Feeling a compulsion in his spark, Pax pressed against the door, and stepped in.

*|*

“Everyone hold on tight!” Jack bellowed as the station erupted into a brilliant orb of light. Blue Ward was their storage facility for the unstable experiments. Thousands of devices had been stored over the many vorns they had been working together. Left alone on a shelf the devices were fine, but even the slightest touch could make some of them go off.

Beside him Percy vented raggedly, optics blazing in grief and fury. It was tempting to think that they got the bastards, but the price had been too high. “I'm not joining any more research teams.” Percy finally announced. “They came _after us_. This time I will come for them.”

Jack looked around the small group of their last remaining mechs and saw the same grief and fury in their optics. “Then we're agreed. We can serve in the field just as well as on a station.” He met each of their optics, “Once we land, split up into small groups. Work your way to the Autobots. We lost our station, but the Autobots will not lose the race for the best weapon.”

“Yes boss.” The group chorused raggedly and fell into uneasy silence. No one expected an easy escape. Wheeljack cursed as a trio of blips appeared on the rearward radar.

“Hold on tight.” Jack rumbled and maneuvered the vessel in the shortest trajectory towards the planet’s surface with a prayer that their luck would hold out just a little longer.

*|*

Orion stepped further within the room, looked around the grand assembly where the many former Primes, now little more than ethereal phantoms, sat as a council from which they guided the current Autobot leaders and passed wisdom from past eras on to the present. He had been here only once before, and that time too had been on accident.

It had been shortly after he had graduated from the Academy, he had just transferred to the base under Sentinel Prime’s command. Orion thought back to those earlier days, when Sentinel had always been there, able to run both an army and train him in leadership and command. Sentinel had claimed Orion bore a sigil, a mark unseen by normal optics but completely visible to a Prime, the sigil of the Primes. It was that orn, so long ago after hearing Sentinel’s pronouncement that Orion had gotten lost in the labyrinthine lower levels of the Iacon base. He had feared having to radio someone to find him when suddenly a door bearing a star chart appeared around a corner. Its placement and the stars themselves so alien to what he knew; were so peculiar that his curiosity would not let him just keep going. Instead, he had gingerly pushed the doors open, stepped into the blindingly lit room to an ongoing conversation that appeared decidedly one-sided despite the many mechs present.

That had indeed been a strange encounter; Sentinel had stood before a shrouded council, a sad look deepening his optics to a worried turquoise hue. Pax had wanted to approach his leader and proclaimed brother, ask what could place such a careworn expression on his face, but he remained quiet, in awe of the Ancients and the raw energy they radiated. Though it seemed they all turned as one to look upon him almost immediately. Sentinel had seemed to not realize he had a visitor, but had brightened immediately when he finally had looked up, bidding the council farewell and offering in his own gruff manner to lead Pax back to the main hallways.

At the time he had itched to ask what he could offer to his Prime that made him seem worth the asking to join the force despite their supposed bond through the sigil only Sentinel could perceive. Instead though, he had remained quiet listening to the elder’s words and wisdom, until Sentinel had bid him good down-cycle and finding himself before the mess hall where he had initially intended on going at the start. He had never had the manifolds to ask what Prime had found within his spark to make him a worthy Autobot, and now it was too late.

 _: Welcome, Orion Pax, we have been waiting._ Orion looked up at the assembled council with bright optics. Here, they sat, all looking at him, patiently waiting for him to fully enter the room and approach the outlined circle upon the floor where Sentinel had stood seemingly so long ago. Yet, the number had not changed between then and now. No new seat had opened for Sentinel Prime.

 _: There was a question you wished to ask Sentinel the last time you were here, young one. What was it?_ Pax could not identify who of the many specters had spoken, but he found himself approaching none the less, still enthralled with the aura they radiated and unafraid.

“I – I wished to know why Sentinel asked me, of all bots, to join the Academy and the Autobot forces. What could a pacifist-bot truly offer? He claimed I was his brother because of a glyph he claimed to have seen upon my face, but no one else could see. How can a mere imperfection upon the armor give him credence to claim such?” There were a thousand other questions running through his processors, all clamoring for attention and yet none were close enough to be vocalized beyond those two.

 _: The answer is that we guided him to you, Orion Pax. He had never seen such a glyph and would have overlooked you, allowed you to fade in anonymity until deactivation. What you can offer? You have seen the history of our world. You know what has caused us failure and what has offered us victory. That is why you were asked to join. We knew, that when Sentinel passed you would offer a unique viewpoint as the next Prime._ Pax cycled his intakes swiftly in confusion, suddenly holding up his hands, head bowed slightly from the deluge of data that was dumped into his processors, to forestall the explanation he suddenly no longer wanted to hear.

“What – wait – _when_ I become next Prime? How, I am no leader, I do not have the resolve, strength or wisdom the supreme commanders hold. I'm a – what do you mean a unique viewpoint? Knowing history and believing in pacifism, doesn't that make me the worst candidate for Prime?” Pax was dumbfounded, his processors spinning and his CPU on the verge of lockup.

_: Young one, should an enemy leader fall upon the field, proclaiming to lead his followers against persecution, do you slay him before his following?_

Pax thought about that one, in their history such an incident had happened only rarely, usually, the Prime had crushed the fallen enemy, which had goaded their opposition to fight with greater determination to defeat the Autobots. “No, to slay such a leader is to give credence to his claims. He becomes a martyr for his cause allowing ten to rise where he had fallen. Such an enemy should only be crushed when he cannot be detained or otherwise countered. They represent the head of the opposition, and only crushed should an opportunity appear that allows them to break the enemy's tenuous loyalty. They follow Megatron, not another. Should Megatron fall Starscream will rise and lead the troops in more devastation. The blatant off-lining of a fallen enemy will only inspire the Decepticons to attack with greater cruelty.” One of the Ancients nodded in approval, the others remained unmoving.

_: That is the opposite answer we received from Sentinel, and now you know his fate. He gave his life to inspire the troops, he has fallen and only those who saw his spark now grieve. Stand in his stead, lead your troops; do not leave them behind to keep them from harm._

_: Stand strong, Optimus Prime, for when your time comes to take the reins, you will be alone no matter how close you let others come.:_

 Darkness enfolded Pax's systems, he could feel his frame, his circuitry and his armor, yet he could feel them only distantly as if the relays linking his central processors to his sensory receptors had had their gain turned down, and yet somehow he was not afraid. His chronometer continued to measure the time and slowly, so slowly the darkness faded to nothing.

*|*

Elita One paced the halls, optics questing each room and corridor for a familiar small blue frame. Her lover was not in his assigned quarters where she should have found him to take comfort in his smaller frame and calm wisdom. When she first found his quarters empty she had gone to seek the rest of his unit. None of the Elite Division Gunnery Unit had seen Orion since they had gone to their temporary quarters. Now, Elita scoured the halls desperately knowing that all too easily an enemy infiltrator could have taken him to use as a demoralizing tactic on the army. A tactic she knew would work exceedingly well. Orion was their final link to Sentinel and the holder of her spark. The smaller mech rarely hid, especially when others needed his strength as she did now.

As the cycles ticked by her spark clenched, debriefings were complete and she would need to report to the other unit commanders. They would need to delegate the responsibilities of Supreme Leader until a new Prime could be appointed. Slowly as she made her way through the older parts of the base through the many hallways, knowing instinctively by the tugging in her spark where he was, but still unable to find him. Gradually the feeling that something was wrong overwhelmed her spark goading her to break into a full run, aching to fold into her alt mode to make better time.

Usually Pax was at her door in astroseconds after something traumatic occurred within the troops, offering her the warmth of his frame and a shoulder to rest on. Yet he had not come to speak with her this time. He was not in the rec room or the mess hall with Ultra Magnus, Nitros or any of the others he had slowly made acquaintances with since following her lead into the ranks and Sentinel’s invite. So now, nearly half an orn after losing their Prime she went out to find her friend and lover, knowing in her spark that she would lose him all too soon, but with no idea how, or why.

Before her, down a corridor that was not on any schematic, she found a set of doors, burnished bronze and engraved with archaic star charts depicting an alien galaxy she had never before seen. This she knew was where Orion was being kept. It terrified her that he felt so distant, and yet still so very close.

Slowly, she pushed the door open, expecting to see Orion there, smiling that sad, self-deprecating smile of his waiting for her like he had so many times before. Instead, she found only an empty room. “Orion?” She asked hesitantly, slightly raising her voice she called again and stepped fully into the room, unaware of the doors slowly closing behind her by themselves. It took a nano-click for the stillness of the room to cause her fuel lines to tense up. She felt someone behind her, as if she were being snuck up on, only this did not feel like Orion, it felt like a hunter, or a Decepticon. She readied herself to turn, already bringing up her blaster from subspace as darkness engulfed her, throwing her nearly violently into stasis lock.

*|*

Endless nothingness. Not black, not grey, a void of absolute emptiness. The ember deep within his spark still burned. Its modulated pulses, the energy swirling within its casing that formed the core of his being, slowly drew him back to consciousness. Orion felt his frame for seemingly the first time. How long he had been here? The internal chronometer he had always relied on was somehow missing. From sensing his spark to registering his frame Orion finally recognized his processors and the scrolling updates his systems streamed along the right side of his inner-optic display.

He paused, his mind pushing the scrolling updates backwards to recheck the data. There it was. His operational mainframe registered a chronometer, but he could not see it. Nor could he feel if he was lying down or standing up. His optics still off, he was literally trapped within his own helm. Mentally trembling at the uncertainty of what had happened, he scrabbled for his boot files. There. With a swift recognition sequence he shoved the boot up into operation only to reel as the transfigured sequence revealed how severely altered everything was.

Memories whirled behind his optics. The Ancients’ door. The bowels of the prison base fused with Iacon’s lower levels. The Ancients _knocked him out_! Fury rose, twining with repulsion that they would do this. Then his system files came online. Orion had been a standard height worker bot. Now, he was of the same height as Ultra Magnus. His cooling fans snicked off in shock as his transformation sequence files spooled through his processors. Going from his alt mode to root mode he would bring more mass out of subspace than any mech he had ever seen – save one.

Optimus Prime. The name hovered in his processors, filled his spark with cold terror. He was a Prime. Orion was gone. He was now _the_ Prime. “Oh, Primus.” The voice that rolled from his vocalizer was unrecognizable. Filled with grief, and command Orion felt compelled to kneel to that voice – and utterly foolish for the compulsion to kneel when he was the one speaking.

Optics onlined. He stared at the ceiling unseeing. Optics tracked through folders of files new to his system.  His mind churned, data frothed through his neural circuits until suddenly a voice spilled from his memory banks.

_… we guided him to you, Orion Pax … would have overlooked you… You have seen the history of our world. You know what has caused us failure and what has offered us victory… you would offer a unique viewpoint as the next Prime._

*|*

Elita booted up, optics scanning her temporary quarters, an empty cell she shared with Chromia and Firestar. She tried to remember what she had been doing before she fell into recharge, a nameless worry gnawed at her spark. Yet nothing surfaced. Standing, she left the small room to find Magnus. They had to convene on Tactician Prowl’s assessment of attacking the remote orbital Command Outpost. She looked down, feeling as if there should have been someone slightly smaller than a standard sized mech walking at her side. She shrugged off the feeling as a random code snippet and deleted the thought. She had no memory of any mech that size standing beside her. Her spark gave a tenuous flutter.

“Magnus!” She called as she entered the prison facility’s equivalent to a mess hall. Ultra Magnus looked up and waved her over to the ‘commanders’ table’ as their troops had come to call it. The long table was set up perpendicular to all the others and raised on a platform. Elita silently wondered if some of the troops did this to keep the semblance of a real base here in this disturbingly quiet incarceration facility.

“Elita, how are your troops faring?” Magnus asked as he scootched down to sit with her alone.

“My femmes are resting. I hope your mechs are doing the same.” She studied Magnus’ face as she spoke, “What is it?”

“I feel like I have misplaced something important, but I cannot remember what it was, or where I last saw it. It happened during the down cycle. I came out of recharge feeling as if –” He shrugged helplessly as words failed him.

“As if someone had blindsided you?” Elita asked she had felt the same way when she had come out of recharge. “Can I ask you a strange question? Do you remember when I headed for my quarters?”

Magnus shook his head. “We were leaving the meeting with Prowl. You were going to meet with … someone?” He looked up at her perplexed. He could clearly see Elita in his memory files walking out the door talking with someone much smaller, but that other mechanoid was blurry; a strange gray blob that could not be resolved no matter how he processed the memory file. He thought back, seeking when the blob first appeared. “It was someone you brought with you on the drop ship.”

The pair fell into unsettled silence, each wondering whom the mech or femme was they had lost all memory of.

“Mornin’ commanders,” Ironhide rumbled as he sat listlessly next to Magnus. “That upstart ordered me ta hit a gladiator pit. Guess too many good Con’s is comin’ from there. I’ll be gone a few orns. Watch the black an’ whites fer me.” Hide nodded towards Jazz and Prowl, one white where the other was black, and downed his morning ration in one gulp. “Keep them alive fer me.”

Magnus nodded, right now Prowl was the closest thing to a commander they had.   
*|*

Energon splattered across the ring. Sideswipe snarled ferally at his opponent, smirking darkly as Sunstreaker threw aside the fractured pieces of his opponent. The chop shop wouldn’t be putting him back together this time. The last standing opponent, a black and vile green hued seeker stepped back weakly. Wings crumpled, fuselage damaged beyond allowing him to transform, he trembled.

“Please,” His voice crackled with static. The crowd roared as microphones picked up his plea. “Please don’t kill me!”

Sideswipe’s sneer turned up into a disarming grin. “This wasn’t supposed to be a fight to the death, but,” he shrugged helplessly, “You’re buddy decided to damage my partner’s paint job. Now we all have to suffer.” With an exaggerated exvent Sideswipe extended his claws. He hated killing with his bare hands – that was Sunny’s M.O. With one last glance at Sunstreaker, ensuring his brother was now calm enough to not jump Sideswipe’s target the crimson gladiator launched himself at the trembling seeker.

 “Down!” Sunstreaker’s voice roared across the ring. Sideswipe’s face planted firmly into the rough metal beneath their peds. Tracking the crowd carefully neither noticed the flood of guards. They watched in slow motion as their last opponent burst into a shimmering splatter of greyed energon. Their systems slowed and stilled as sedative shots took them down to oblivion.

“Attack!” a voice roared. The crowd collapsed en mass as EMP grenades took out electrical systems and Sideswipe fell into blackness with Sunstreaker on top of him, still forcing him down even in unconsciousness.

*|*

Ironhide swore roundly, optics searing with self-recrimination through the carnage. The entire ring had been rigged to blow. Only smears of energon and glim were left in the arena. The stands had been damaged, too many had gotten away, but the few that had been detained had only confirmed his worst fear: Team Sigma had been fighting when they had attacked. Outside of the rings, the many imprisoned gladiators were little more than silvery dripping splatters within their cages.

“It’s them, found their cage. Guess it wasn’t the Decepticons keeping them loyal, they were chipped with explosives, their cages were rigged with explosives, and the halls, and rings and every training room were rigged with explosives. If they didn’t fight, they died.” Steelcracker looked at the ruins around them. Even with the destruction from so many explosives the cage – more like stalls – for the pair had stood in complete isolation. Fragmented signs warned to not approach and even energon rations were shoved into their stalls with extremely long poles.

“The Cons were afraid of them.” Ironhide breathed as he noticed stains on the ground – old stains, dark from repeated staining – of mech blood. Only the processed energon in their lines made those kinds of marks on floors. This pair had been lethal.

Ironhide sighed, helm hung in dejection. “Get the prisoners on board! Record any data on Team Sigma! We lift off in one groon.”

Now he had to explain to Prowl how he had triggered the massive explosion that terminated their best leads to finding out how Megatron trained his best lieutenants. This was going to be fun – like a Decepticon free-for-all.

*|*

Wheeljack looked up at the imposing structure before them, Rura Penthe, at one time he would have given anything to have inspected their prisoner retaining blocks. The building held subspace storage for nearly a million mechanoids, yet the building without that storage could only hold seven hundred. It was an engineering miracle. Now, it was their only hope for repairs. He looked behind him, Perceptor took up the rear, the red scientist had fallen utterly silent since Maglav’s death. Losing his lover had shattered his spark.

Thirty scientists had fled the Torus Nine; twenty survived the crash. Twelve stood before Rura Penthe, Wheeljack hoped they could be mended, he prayed Ratchet was waiting for them. “Come on, we’re almost home.”

Huffer looked up at Wheeljack, then back at the straggling group. “If he’s not, most of us won’t make it to another base.”

Wheeljack nodded as he strode forward, behind him the others clung together, supporting each other to keep from falling down. He raised a hand to cover the welded gash along his side. Huffer had a good hand for the smaller wounds, the mechling had never upgraded past minibot or progressed past general medic. Too many had died, too many were lost to the Allspark. He was determined to get the rest home – Perceptor, Huffer – everyone.

They trooped towards Rura Penthe. Wheeljack booted up a protocol he had not touched since the orn he had shipped out to Torus Nine. A small screen appeared on his HUD, he smiled beneath the blast mask that had become part of his face. The doctor was in. The red blip that represented Ratchet winked merrily at him, the first inkling of hope kindled in his spark. If they could see Ratchet, if the medics in Rura Penthe were not overrun from battle damage, his remaining scientists might just live another orn.

“State your designations and origins.” A stiff voice rose from nowhere. Haughty, cold, superior; Wheeljack stiffened as he sought the speaker.

“Science Division, Torus Nine. All survivors present; Chief Science Officer Perceptor and Chief Engineering Officer Wheeljack reporting.” Wheeljack replied he could feel the force of Perceptor’s pinged response, could almost detect a flinch from their unseen interrogator.

“Follow me. Name’s Hound, don’t mind Mirage, he’s just doing his job.” A green mech appeared before them, melting from a hologram projection of the building.

“Hound?” Wheeljack stared at the mech he had not seen in megavorns. “Primus, you’re alive. My mechs are hurting. We need Ratchet, can you take us to him?”

“Ratchet?” Hound cycled his optics, “I haven’t seen him since I passed boot camp. He’s listed as MIA.”

“That’s impossible. I placed a tracer on him when we went to the Wastes, it's still working, and his signal is here, in Rura Penthe.”

Hound’s jaw gaped, “Mirage, get these mechs to medical. Wheeljack, come with me. You need to speak with the commanders.”

“Not without me.” Perceptor stepped forward, “There is discourse to be had with Sentinel.”

“You don’t know?” Mirage appeared, blue and white with rare golden optics only the Elites could afford, “Sentinel died by Megatron’s hand four orns ago.”

Wheeljack snorted disdainfully, “Four orns ago we were fighting for our lives on Torus Nine. Three orns ago we were evading Decepticon Seekers in an escape pod. Two orns ago we crash-landed in the Wastes, and any spark not killed on the station or in the firefight terminated on impact. Of the  _thousand_ strong science complement we are all that remains. And, we have proof that we have _Sentinel_ to thank for that. Our own station had been hacked by that damned false Prime, and used as a relay tower to screw up our transmissions.”

Mirage and Hound shared a glance, “Speak with Senior Officers Prowl and Jazz. They need to hear this, all of it.”

Wheeljack followed the pair, Perceptor silent and fuming at his side. They had all wanted the chance to rail at Sentinel, to yell, scream, to do _something_ to let their rage and grief be shown to the bastard who had sold them out to the Cons. Now, they probably couldn’t even spit on his hollow shell. Even their minor, petty revenge had been denied them.

 

*|*

Prowl listened, his mind taking in everything that was said as the two mechs introduced as the legends, Wheeljack, and Perceptor, retold the destruction of Torus Nine. Heavy data packets kept appearing in his inbox, each condensed with decavorns of research, inventions, inventories and revelations that Sentinel had been undermining every Autobot endeavor from almost the orn he was chosen as the next Prime.

“Orbital Command was a first phase prototype low orbital advanced weaponry platform. Design specifications and meteorite mining requisitions had been forwarded to Sentinel in his first vorn as Prime. His reply had been to decommission the advanced weapons platform initiatives and reassign all science division mechs involved to assist with weaponry development.” Perceptor’s words were buffered through Prowls onboard translation suite. Big words he had never heard before poured out of the scientist’s vocal processors at an alarming speed.

‘Does anything he says make sense to you?’ Jazz asked across their private link.

‘Patch into my translation suite, I can not offer a succinct translation to what he is saying.’ Prowl opened a small port in his firewalls to allow Jazz access to the data.

“So mech, what weapons were delivered to the Autobots?” Jazz asked. Prowl approved of the question. They had believed Torus Nine had ceased to exist with all hands lost nearly a megavorn ago. Now they had the very mechs alive before them. It sealed the sabotage Sentinel had been planning his entire career as Prime.

 _The False Prime; perhaps the troops were correct after all._ Prowl’s mind mused on the thought as the next data packet came in. He staggered as the scrolling data revealed  massive weapon, after weapon that had found its way into Decepticon hands, all crafted by Autobot scientists.

“Whoa there, Prowler. Hang on, mech, deep intakes. Open your intakes, and cycle! Prowler!” Jazz’s voice sounded distant, the world was hazy and grey.

*|*

“I think ya broke him.” Jazz looked up at Perceptor in shock. He refused to admit it, but he was terrified, more scared than he had been in the District warehouse in Paraxus. It seemed like a lifetime ago, back before he had linked to Prowl, back when he had lived alone in his own processors. Now, for the first time in many vorns his helm was silent, and he was terrified.

“Stand back, give the mech some room.” Ironhide waded in, shoving to kneel at Prowl’s side. “The lad hasn’t had one of these episodes in ages. I still remember the first one, all of us were terrified we’d lose the new spark. He had been so young, a foundling in the ruins of the old warehouse district.” Ironhide looked to the others.

“Believe it or not, this mech is Sentinel’s living legacy. Sentinel saved him from those wastes, raised him until he was old enough to be placed in an orphanage in Paraxus. I visited Prowl every vorn until he earned his final upgrades.”

“Will – will he – is he –” Jazz swallowed the words he couldn’t utter. _Is he going to die?_

“You mean he’s never once done this before?” Ironhide asked surprised. “Huh, well, I’ll be. Guess you’ve been a greater influence on him than I thought. You’re the reason he hasn’t crashed like this in so long, finding out the mech who saved him, and he had once idolized had been a murder this whole time was too much to take on, I guess.”

“What about Ratchet?” Wheeljack asked, “He can treat Prowl, he’s here!”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Ironhide stood with a menacing growl. “Ratchet’s been gone, kidnapped and lost for good since reassignment from Commander Afterburn’s unit.”

“What?” Jack gapped, “But, dammit Ironhide give me a link here!”

Ironhide extended his hand, offering a link cable extending from his wrist. Jack sunk the cable into a wrist port, synching his optical HUD tracking Ratchet’s movement to Ironhide’s inner optic display.

“Bleeding Primus!” Ironhide swore roundly. Jazz stepped between Ironhide and Prowl, protecting his friend as the older bot turned fast enough to make a hip joint squeal loudly in the small room. Magnus and Elita flinched from the noise, the other commanders on-lined their weapons systems and tracked the room’s perimeter for threats as Ironhide bolted out of the room and down the hall.

Magnus gathered Prowl into the crook of one arm, the young CO looked so fragile. With a nod Jazz raced after Ironhide, following at the old timer’s heels as they raced headlong down the one corridor no one wanted to enter.

They had discovered the interrogation rooms on their first orn here, after seeing the glim-coated surgery tables and racks of tools of torture still stained from their last use, no one had neared again. The shredded body parts _branded_ with Autobot sigils had spoken loudly of the ‘interrogation’ methods that had been used in those silent, echoing rooms. No one had entered since not until this orn.

They passed by the silent torture chambers, the energon stained and splattered interrogation rooms, and the morbid Unmaker’s Ward – the place were a mech’s body is dismantled, his spark and core processors placed into a box and stored – _forgotten_ – forever.

Jazz pulled his optics from the Unmaker’s Ward, focused on tailing Ironhide and the location he and Wheeljack seemed pulled to. Both older mechs kept repeating ‘Ratchet’, whoever the mech was, Jazz just hoped he was worth the effort of finding him.

“This is it, end of the line.” Ironhide rumbled with displeasure.

Wheeljack shook his helm, lighted fins framing his face pulses worried orange and angsty gray. “This can’t be, his signal is _behind_ the wall!” The engineer began pounding his fists against the gray metal, each impact rang solid, not hollow.

Jazz slitted his optics behind his optic band. Prowl had been furious about the missing personnel from medical, the severely injured mechs that no one could mend. “Who is Ratchet?”

Wheeljack pinged a packet with Ratchet’s credentials, and Jazz could only whistle. The mech was a Primus-sent blessing – if he really existed. Finding Ratchet would give them the CMO the so desperately needed in a ward full of volunteers, Neutrals, and emergency responders. Megatron had slaughtered all known medical personnel until the identities of each became a fiercely guarded secret. Those that remained with the Autobots were either sequestered in Black Opps, SpecOps, or in Iacon. None were available right now, and with over thirty mechs missing, mostly irreparably damaged, they couldn’t leave to seek the medical aid they needed. Jazz just hoped what he was about to do wouldn’t kill his best friend.

“Put Prowl in Medical.” Jazz ordered, and felt like a fool commanding mechs thrice his size and many times as experienced.

“What?” Wheeljack and Ironhide demanded as they stared down Jazz.

 _Brilliant, get the big mechs angry when you’re the perfect height to get stomped, great idea Jazz._ He reprimanded himself as even Elita and Ultra Magnus joined the glaring match. Jazz stifled the sudden urge to bolt from his own troops, with Prowl down he had to hold things together – this was Prowl’s forte!

“I see,” Elita mused, “With Prowl in medical we can follow up on the rumors of the vanishing troops. Also, if Ratchet is here, somehow sneaking in to capture wounded mechs, he’ll appear when the volunteers have all left.”

“Exactly.” Jazz stood to his full – but very diminutive – height, turned on his ped and headed towards medical. He looked towards the ceiling and prayed Prowl would be all right, without Prowl this army would be slaughtered when they next met the Decepticons in battle.

*|*

He stood in a desert. Scorching sand scoured his plating. His systems ran hot. Giant towered over him, their faces massive and disturbing. They were the faces of the past Primes – the Ancients. He could not recognize any of them, names and features lost to memory but the Matrix within his chest resonated with their memories.

“Do you know why you are here, young Prime?” A voice rang above the screaming winds, heard above it, and from within.

“I do not, Ancient Ones.”

“Watch, and remember.”

_Cybertron, wealthy and vast, it is the heart of our empire. I watch the shuttles take off and land from the main trade center ferrying trade goods with our allies across the stars. Life is good, I am blessed to be Prime in this beautiful Golden Age. Primus chose me, and his spark resonates in my chest, next to mine. It is said to be a Prime one becomes the bride of Primus himself._

_“Solus Prime, we have a problem.”_

_My guard, ever faithful, I am comforted when she is near. Zicta is always at my elbow. “What is it Zicta?”_

_“The Shadowed Covenant, there are revolts in the Thetacon districts. They believe the Shadows are the mark of the Unmaker, and should only belong to them, as they hold the Sun-Eater. The Covenant of Light is trying to make peace with them, but more die by the astrosecond.”_

_The one blotch on Cybertron, our only sin, we allowed our exploration scientists to bring back a religion they made while patrolling the distant edges of this galaxy: The Eclipsed Covenants. The shadows, spawn of Unicron, destroy like a black hole. The Light, creations of Prime, creates like nebulas. Together they eclipse one another, cancel light with dark, destruction with creation._

Optimus gasped, sat up in a plane of ice and snow. The air was cold his plating pinged and shrieked as it constricted around him. “She slaughtered the temples!” He felt her disdain for the religions, and her joy in their slaughter. He retched, coughing up the dregs of his last meal. He couldn’t breath, his intake froze in the frigid air.

“The Primes are rife with the flaws of normal mechs and femmes. They suffer the same fears and prejudices, only magnified by the Matrix.”

The Ancient Ones spoke in his helm, their words etched themselves into his processors. He felt the lives of dozens – hundreds of Primes pouring into his spark, his mind. He felt overwhelmed, sickened and horrified at every turn.

 _Iacon, it is beautiful. I watch the construction crews finish the last details of the newest city on Cybertron –_ my _city. I designed it, I crushed Tarkin below it, the old trade city falling to dust. With a swift sweep and a few misdirections, the feeble minded masses believe we ensured Tarkin had been cleared._

 _Fools. Tarkin, the relic of the old Eclipsed Covenants and its so mighty Temple of Light, is gone. The clerics, the warmongers, the zealots; no one will challenge our glorious rising. I watch the stars and wait, soon they will be here, our_ customers.

_“Prime Nova!” I watch as my guards point to the skies. Raiders. Filthy scum from Antilla, Cybertronian colonizers and now interstellar pirates. I nod to my security chief. It is time. They will get what they are due._

_“Send the Rust Bomb.”_

“NO!” Optimus bellowed, fists pounding into glowing floor panels. He looked around, he was alone. The Ancient Ones were gone. Only his echo replied to his screams.

“They made a Rust Bomb.” He shivered. It was the most heinous type of warfare – one even Megatron had yet to venture into – they had harnessed the Rust Virus. The deadly disease eats away at any mechanoid life form. It devours internals and leaves nothing of its victim but the most fragile corpse composed of rust. If another mechanoid touched the corpse, the fragile remains would crumble to dust – and the virus would spread.

“Is this my legacy? Is this what I have been chosen to do? Am I to continue the path of destruction you, my predecessors began?”

Coolant leaked from his systems, lubricant coated his fingers. How he had gotten to the desert, the frozen wastes, he did not know, but both had left their marks on him. His plating was scratched, creased and gouged. His hands looked aged.

“How long will you keep me here?” He asked the silence around him. No answer came and the silence followed him as recharge claimed his exhausted systems.

*|*

They watched from the nurse’s station. Five mechs, all but one massive, squeezed into the space for three small mechs; Jazz constantly shifted, praying he would not get stepped on. Ultra Magnus and Ariel had demanded to stay neither gave their reasons. Ironhide had just claimed the station’s only seat and Wheeljack – Jazz knew why Wheeljack stayed. Jazz refused to leave Prowl’s side. It hurt to not hear his friend in his processors, the constant white noise of calculations and plans had fallen silent. He had to see Prowl, to know his friend was still functioning. He looked to Wheeljack and saw the same desperation in the older mech’s optics.

Time trickled by, the astrosecond scrolling by on his internal chronometer, but each time he glanced at the spiraling numbers, Jazz was positive they went still. Time froze each time he looked at the numbers as if laughing at his despair. He looked to Prowl. His spark felt suspended in his chest as if hit with a null ray. The wall behind the medical ward had opened.

“Move out!” Jazz bolted over Ironhide, slipped between Elita’s legs and raced into the medical ward just as a mechanical claw extended from the glowing opening in the wall and grabbed Prowl. Jazz followed, below the claw and into the wall. A berth slammed into the opening, blocking whatever mechanism kept it open. Peds pounded behind him.

“Dear Primus, Ratchet!” Wheeljack’s voice gasped, but Jazz had optics only for the path his friend’s captor led.

The arm set Prowl down on a med berth. Only when he knew his friend was safe, only when white nurse-drones stepped forward did Jazz look around. Then, he wished he hadn’t.

Suspended in the middle of the room, hanging by claws holding the figure like a hung corpse, was a medic, coated with so many dried fluids of different types his color could not be discerned except for the white arms and crimson hands. Offline, the figure seemed unreal, the fluids had dried into a gray caricature of the terminated. A collar encircled the medic’s neck, attached to it were feeding tubes: pink energon, yellow coolant, and green lubricant. All the necessities of life filtered through those tubes into the mech that had not seen a wash rack in likely many vorns.

Behind them, the metal arm shoved the medical berth back into position, and the wall closed. Jazz watched, spellbound, as the medic was lowered onto a berth and jolted into consciousness with an audible snap of electricity.

“Primus just take my spark already.” The weary, gravelly voice made Jazz jump. The defeated optics that lit, dark cobalt, and landed on him – Jazz knew those optics.

“Ratch?” Wheeljack asked hands raised harmlessly as he approached.

“If you’re a hallucination I’m terminating myself right now.” Ratchet rumbled hollowly. Despair resounded in each word.

“Ratch, its me, its Wheeljack. C’mon buddy, you can’t terminate yourself now, you still owe me six cases of Paraxan High Grade.”

“Paraxan – it is you. You're still lost in your laboratory.” Grief welled up in Ratchet’s optics. “Paraxus fell. I tried to help.”

Jack knelt down beside Ratchet, and nearly fell on the mech when the dingy arms snagged around him as Ratchet keened into Wheeljack’s chest.  “Whoa, buddy, hand in there. I’m here, we’re here.”

Jazz stared. He swallowed tightly and held Prowl’s hand. He trembled. In Ratchet’s despair, his energy field had flared and hit him. Jazz knew Ratchet. Prowl knew Ratchet. Ratchet is – was – Ratchet had been 3:1:0. Ratchet had made them.

_Creator._


	11. First Panel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz get a surprise. Whether it is good or bad, only time will tell.

“Ah’ll be slagged. He’s been here the whole time?” Ironhide looked down on Ratchet, soundly in recharge. With the collar removed, a fresh strip of white lay bare around his neck, Ratchet looked so different – young. Ironhide still remembered first meeting the medic in Iacon, still remembered listening to Steelhand’s griping about being pinned down and outmatched by an unarmed, new-line medic. _Ratchet always did have titanium bearings._

“Where am I?” Ratchet finally ground out, he sat up, optics dim.

“Rura Penthe, the prison station. It’s pretty much abandoned, except for the Autobot army camped out in it.” Wheeljack handed the medic a cube of enrgon.

“Primus, I thought I’d be taking my energon through a tube until I self-terminated. That tastes so good.”

“That’s the second time ya’ve mentioned self-termination, medic.” Ironhide rumbled, he glared down at the medic, hoping to knock some sense into the young idiot.

“I thought that was my only way out. This is the second medical ward I’ve been imprisoned in since my transfer orders from Lieutenant Commander Afterburn’s detachment. I don’t even know how much time has passed.”

“Lieutenant Commander? Ratch, Afterburn’s a Field General, and ready for promotion.” Wheeljack stared at his brother.

Ironhide could only shake his helm. “Do you need your chronometer to fix our acting commander?”

“I’m a medic, aren’t I?” Ratchet demanded and rose, swaying as his gears squealed with the sudden motion. “Slaggit. You’d think if someone was going to stash me into this Pit-hole of a medical ward the slagging drones would remember to fix their slagging medic!”

Ironhide felt the edge of his mouth begin to twitch up as Ratchet began his (in)famous tirade. Smartly, he forced a stern expression to keep from laughing. He muted his vocalizer when he looked at Jazz, the youngster looked poleaxed. He took an image capture from his optic feeds for posterity.

Jazz stood by Prowl’s berth, the tactican’s hand in his. Mouth agape, optic band glowing brilliantly the poor youngster had just suffered his first full Ratchet experience. Ironhide chuckled internally, he really did miss having the medic around.

“What, did you two do something stupid to fuse your hands together? No? Then get the slag away from my patient and let me do my job.”

“Yep, Ratchet’s back.” Wheeljack crowed. He beckoned Jazz to his side. Irohide followed them outside.

“Don’t take his words to spark, lad. Ratchet’s more bark than bite – leastwise he used ta be.” Ironhide looked Jazz over. The mech looked more troubled than he should. Ratchet was a lot to take in, but this was Jazz, he had handled worse.

“I – I see. He just doesn’t match up with his reputation.” Jazz looked back into the medical ward. “Is it safe to leave Prowl with him – gah!” A wrench landed at Jazz’s feet, Jazz doubled over, holding his helm in agony.

“Leave him with me? Are you suggesting a _patient_ is not safe with A MEDIC?!” Ratchet bellowed. Jazz bolted. Dust rattled from the ceiling and walls.

“Get a slagging cleaning crew in that hallway. I will not have patients trailing through glim to get treatment.” Ratchet snarled at Jack and Ironhide, leaving the two to arrange cleanup and tracking down Jazz.

Ironhide chose the lesser of the two evils – he hunted down Jazz. Throughout the base, mechs everywhere were staring towards medical.

“Guess he’s awake.” Ultra Magnus smiled at Ironhide.

“And in fine form.” Hide nodded as he passed, a snicker escaping him as he moved. “Jazz got the full experience.”

“Poor Jazz.” Magnus smiled. Both mechs recalled their own introductions to Ratchet’s less that ideal temper. Neither had been as fiery as Jazz’s had been. That part had Ironhide worried, but losing his chronometer, being imprisoned – twice, and not knowing who on the outside was still even online, who could blame the mech?

“Speakin’ of the mech, have you seen him?” Ironhide looked around.

“He ran for the comm.”

Ironhide saluted Magnus and marched off. He had a bad feeling about this.

*|*

Jazz stared at Red Alert across the vid-feed. “Mech, I just bounced into three familiar faces in one orn and remembered zero. Good news, we found Ratchet. He’s stalking the medical ward as we speak.”

“Are you sure this is Ratchet? This could be a Decepticon plant.” Red Alert replied instantly, not that Jazz was surprised.

“Both Big Red and Flashes vouched for him.”

“Then this means he can never know. I’ll pass the word.” Red Alert signed off.

Jazz hung his helm. Back in Iacon the other Precious Sparks were on their own assignments. Red Alert would spread the word. Deep inside, though, Jazz knew their time in Rura Penthe was running short. Prowl needed to get back on his peds and consolidate their forces. They had already spent most of the joor in this position, cut off from the rest of the Autobot forces. All of the current highest-ranking commanders were stationed here, one of Sentinel’s most _brilliant_ moves before he terminated.

Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he had felt loss for Sentinel. Instead, he only felt relief. No more suicide missions. No more forcing good soldiers – _friends_ – into early termination. Maybe they would finally have a chance to end this war.

“Ah nevah thought Ah’d find ya in here. Spreadin’ the word of Ratchet’s appearance?” Ironhide’s voice sounded from the doorway.

“Yeah, we can’t have Red throwing a fit over somebot presumed long terminated, can we?”

“Nope, wouldn’t want that. ‘Big Red’ might have ta bust some helms.”

Jazz grinned impishly, “Mech, the more we keep the Decepti-creeps guessing, the longer we’ll keep our troops safe.”

“Like slag. You gave Ratchet’s name! Megatron has standing orders for the medic’s termination! Ah know that was a secure line. Ah also know Blaster’s on comms duty with his cassettes. So spill.”

“Can’t mech, that falls under SpecOps. Stick ta guardin’, old mech.” Jazz scampered from the room, allowing a chuckle to slip out. Ratchet was their creator. He just hoped Prowl wouldn’t crash again when he learned the news.

*|*

“They ruined my paint job.” Sunstreaker grumbled and rubbed flecks of bubbled and warped dermal plating from his shoulder. His paint job had been ruined since the Rings exploded. Sideswipe thought one of the Decepticons had made a power play and lost. Sunstreaker wasn’t so sure.

“I never thought I would miss our stables.” Sidswipe moaned. “Think we’ll find energon today?”

“No.” Sunstreaker looked into the distance. The stars were bright, he didn’t remember them. Had he ever looked up at the sky before? Maybe. He remembered a painting, more like a flash from a past life than a memory, of a nebula glowing in pinks and blues etched in the mech-blood of others. That past life had thought it had been his masterpiece. He had been stupid.

The past was haunting him this orn: Double-Cross, Spin-Out – and Ranger. He and Sideswipe held memories that were not their own. Memories of when Ranger had not been afraid of them, from a time when Double-Cross had been good and Spin-Out had never hurt anyone.

“I want to delete my memories.” Sunstreaker broke the silence. Windswept swirls of shimmering sand brushed against his armor. The small, shifting dunes shimmered like crushed stars. His past self wanted to capture this image and paint it. His current self wished for a wash rack.

“What? You mean you want to forget everything?”

“Ranger, Double-Cross, Spin-Out; I don’t want to remember them.”

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?” Sideswipe blocked his path, red arms held out to keep Sunstreaker from moving forward. “Sunny, wait –“

“Don’t call me that!”

“Sunny! I know our earliest memories aren’t ours. But, we _were_ DC and Spinout, for a while.”

“We murdered them. _We_ let them die! _We killed_ whoever those mechs had been. We let them die because of us. Spinout was my first victim.”

Sideswipe nodded silently, “And if you delete them who will avenge them? At least, keep the memories of them-us? Please?”

“Why? I don’t want to be that mech!”

“Because, you wanted to fall in love!” Sideswipe grabbed his brother's chest. " _You_ wanted to fall in love. The old Spin-Out only wanted to please Ranger. They're dead, but you're alive and I want you to have that dream."

“What?” Sunstreaker stared at his twin as echoes repeated around him. The memory suddenly welled up inside of him. He couldn’t stop the small smile that blossomed on his face. Yes, he had wanted to fall in love; wanted to know how it felt to be the most important mech in another’s life. Was it wrong to want to be held, sheltered, and forgiven?

The smile faded along with the first faint stirrings of hope. He was too damaged for stupid dreams now. No one would come near the monster he had become. Sideswipe claimed to not remember the rape, but Sunstreaker could never forget it. He had done the unspeakable to his own brother. _Sunstreaker_ had killed Double-Cross. Spin-Out had never recovered from the loss. Once Awl had taken them into custody for the house, Sunstreaker had never reverted to his old appearance again.

“Down!” Sideswipe tackled him. Jets screamed overhead, laser bolts lanced into the ground leaving jagged lines of melted slag in their wake.

“You want to avenge those two?” Sunstreaker growled, shoved away from his brother and stared after the jets. Battle lust and vengeance seared through his lines.

“Slag, yes!” Sideswipe grinned, the wide manic grin DC used to have before a big job. Sunstreaker focused on the jets. Sideswipe forgave him, but he would never forgive the Decepticons that made him do the unforgivable to his own brother. _They will pay!_

*|*

“Optimus!” Megatron roared across the battlefield.

_Where am I? How did I get here? Is this another of the Ancients’ tests for me?_

“Your troops have fallen. There is no one to protect you.”

Soldiers lay strewn across the battlefield. The dark metal of their planet stained pink from the spilled mech-blood. Dead, gray, the corpses piled beneath Megatron’s feet – and his own. Optimus stared down at Elita’s face, her optics dark; her spark cold and still.

“No.” Optimus looked up as a rocket slammed into his chest.

“Connections to others make you weak.” An Ancient spoke, a hint of malice in his voice.

“I disagree.” Optimus stared up at the Ancients. “You chose me as I am different from Sentinel! He cut himself off from everyone – suggestions he got from all of you. I will not separate myself from my friends. _They_ are who I fight for, not me, not you. I will fight for a future without war. A future for my friends, for their creations; if not for others, then what is there to fight for?”

Silence reigned. The room he stood in glowed softly, dimly at first as the Ancients vanished. Blinding light flooded his optics. When he could see, he stood under the stars, dim for the down cycle, in the middle of a plain of shifting sands that had once been Dead End.  Piles of rubble shattered rocks from asteroids that landed in this region only for reasons no one yet knew. Small creatures, organic in nature, fed on the shimmering glim and broken rocks. New life grew where his kind had killed anything larger.

Optimus strode down the half-remembered pathway, past the bend where he and Dion had inspected the organics in this region when they had been younger. He looked to the rubble of what had been Ratchet’s clinic. Only a few beams remained. Not even the frames of the dead were safe from scavengers.

_How long has it been since I last saw Elita?_ Optimus mused on those he left behind and if they had given up on him. A light flashed in his HUD, at first a simple dot that swiftly grew into his digital chronometer display.

“One joor.” He hung his head, felt his knees go weak as he slid to the sands. The Ancients had twisted time, aged him. He had battled Megatron, the Senate, evil Autobots, ethical Decepticons and alien species he had never heard of as he had relived the pasts of all the known and unknown Primes. He hoped only a joor had passed, maybe then he would be able to see Elita one more time.

He looked to the stars and opened his comm channels. He scoured the dead space, silent radio frequencies until he found the Autobot Detail transponder codes. _There!_ Faint radio echoes from the nearest outpost, a forgotten and desolate place a forgotten Prime had created long ago with the direst of intentions. Rura Penthe, the prison of disembodied sparks. If ever filled, it was programmed to harness the energies of living sparks to fuel their planet’s core; a weapon of energy and destruction that fed on lives.

Optimus shuddered and initiated his transformation sequence into his alt mode. Agony exploded along his plating. Sub-space storage compartments in his legs opened, spewing the mass of an extended energon transport carrier deck.  The enclosed storage and transport unit self-assembled, folding into a trailer that hooked into his frame.

He took stock as the anguish subsided. Triple axels, ten wheels supported his front cab – his body’s alt mode. Behind him the trailer rested over the rear four wheels and had two axels of its own; so much could go wrong with so many exposed assemblies. He revved his engine; power consumption, fuel levels, torque and throttle calculations scrolled through his processors.

_Maybe I can make it._ He plotted his course as he settled on his shocks and readied to move. His scanners tracked back to the transport unit at his rear. The Ancients’ sense of humor was cruel. To give a former energon warehouse loader a transport alt mode, a constant reminder of his origins, only made him more aware of how much time had passed since he had left the warehouse. Part of him wondered if anybot he had once worked with still lived.

_This should feel strange, new. How did the Ancients make me feel my alt mode when I was trapped in that room?_ The realization that he knew how to maneuver this much mass hit him with the force of a city-former. With a silent prayer to Primus he shelved the thoughts and targeted Rura Penthe. He pushed his accelerator to the limit and hoped the Decepticons were busy somewhere else.

*|*

Ratchet peeked through the doorway, uncertainty gnawing at his spark. There, in just two steps lay the real world. He was terrified. Wheeljack had helped him reactivate his chronometer, and the time lapse had been staggering. Three megavorns. Three megavorns had passed since he had bid farewell to Lieutenant Commander Afterburn; since he had lost all his armaments, his accessory tools. In a snap, he had gone from medical combatant to just a liability.

Those two steps were daunting. Could he do it? Could he leave this blue-coated Pit and rejoin his comrades? _A medic never waivers._ He almost laughed at the old memory. He had been so adamant, so determined. He had been so naive. With a deep intake, Ratchet drew himself up to his full height, held his breath and stepped once, twice. He cycled on his optics, not remembering when he had squeezed them shut and looked around.

“Oh, Primus he’s back!” A terror-filled voice rose in the corridor. Screams sounded and faded as peds pounded away.

“Well, Ratchet, guess they remember you. I do too.” Steelhand stepped from around the corner. Optics dim he looked to Ratchet.

“Steelhand, it's been – a long time.” Ratchet looked the mech over. “What in Primus’ name have you done to yourself!”

Steelhand flinched at the volume but only sat on the first med berth.

“Someone nearly split your chest plates open, and these scraplet bites are looking infected. I’ll need to grind out the rust.” Ratchet muttered and swore as he worked, each injury cataloged and inspected as he worked.

“Do you remember when I asked you what you thought of Sentinel?” Steelhand asked softly.

“Yes, I also remember telling you he was a slagging waste for a Prime. He fought slagging ugly battles, lost stupidly and kept his best assets, healers for his wounded too far away.”

“You were right.” Steelhand sobbed, grief radiated from the mech.

Ratchet set down his tools and let the soldier keen on his shoulder. Something terrible had happened, something no one was willing to talk about. Whatever it was, someone had terminated – and it all came down to Sentinel.

Ratchet barely held in a sigh, he hated this part of his job, letting his spark feel too strongly all the hurts his hands couldn’t mend. “What happened?”

It felt like vorns had passed until Steelhand ceased to spew the sins of a lifetime. The atrocities Sentinel had committed over the passing time had finally come to light and everyone had realized the rumors of a False Prime had been real, but too late to save Sentinel. Ratchet looked down at Steelhand, grateful the mech had finally fallen into recharge. The soldier needed a shrink, a friend and a stiff drink – and not in that order.

“Um, who are you?” A voice asked tentatively from the hall leading into the main body of the base.

Ratchet turned, optics pinning a young Neutral where she stood. The femme, a sleek silver and violet speeder build looked Ratchet over until her optics widened. “But, you’re a myth!”

“Hah!” Ratchet barked a bitter laugh, then shook his helm. “How much training have you had?” He asked her with speculative optics.

She stiffened, door wings arching outwards from her shoulders in affront. “I am a fully trained medical officer of Iacon Medical, Senior Medic Questro.”

“Senior medic, hmm. I think you’ll do. Watch him, make sure he rests and takes his rations. I need a shower. Which way to the wash racks?”

“I _can_ handle a single patient!” Questro sniffed, her optics bright with indignation.

“Good, and since I can’t have you getting bored: get all injured personnel back in here for follow-ups, identify all senior officers and command staff and work with them to get full inspections. I need a list of all base personnel and they _all_ need checkups, updates, and critical component stress evaluations. I hope that will keep you occupied.”

“Bu – but I’m a medic, not a secretary!”

Ratchet chuckled as he left, talking with the on-line was a vast improvement over the drones. The wash racks were calling his name, and then he’d be back in the medbay and busy as ever. His fingers tingled with anticipation. Finally, someone he could yell at! Being pissed and hateful at his crappy luck was wasted on the unconscious.

*|*

Jazz felt the old fear of leading others starting to overwhelm him. Time was passing too fast! They needed to rejoin the rest of the army. He needed Prowl up and running to do that. Decepticon scouts were spotted every eleven groons. Soon, their hidden base would be found, and then they would have to face Megatron – without a Prime!

He was back in medical, sitting by Prowl in a private room set up by Ratchet. Wheeljack and Steelhand had updated the medic on current events, including the rank Jazz and Prowl shared. No one had asked Ratchet for a private room, or for the officer wards to keep the rank and file separate from their commanders so planning sessions could continue as someone recuperated.

The medic had been busy. Most of the base personnel had been given at least a followup by Ratchet. Surgeries were scheduled, maintenance was in the planning stages and even Questro, the one femme in the medical ward who actually _had_ training was impressed.

Currently, Prowl was the only officer in medical. Jazz was grateful, it allowed him to hold Prowl’s hand again. He wanted his friend back. He didn’t want to be alone in his processors anymore. He didn’t know how to lead this fraction of their army solo – how could he lead the entire Autobot forces without Prowl?

‘My hand is not indestructible.’ Prowl’s voice filled Jazz’s processors.

“Sorry mech, you’ve had me worried here. It's been strange not having you ride with me.”

Prowl stared at Jazz, optics bright and piercing. ‘My sensors do not register your remote module.’

“Primus! You’re not talking!” Jazz backpedaled, attempting to stand from his seat only to fall over in his haste.

“Mind telling me what the _slag_ is going on here?” Ratchet demanded as he burst into the curtained off room. He slitted his optics scrutinizing first Prowl, then Jazz.

Jazz tried to slow his intakes, tried to calm his spark that was spinning fast enough to make crackles of electricity spark off his frame. This was terror. His processors sluggishly pieced the emotions he was good at ignoring.

“Apparently, Jazz can hear me, just as if my remote module were still in position. However neither his is with me nor mine with him.” Prowl responded, but Jazz could sense his fear as well.

“Emotional bleed-through?” Ratchet asked Jazz did not want to answer. The terrifyingly calm tone of voice coming from the medic made him long to hear the constant swearing instead – the swearing was becoming normal.

“Yes – uh, yeah, mech.” Jazz squeaked and tried again. His voice was staticky.

“Both of you?” Ratchet asked. Prowl nodded.

‘Traitor’ Jazz thought to his partner and almost laughed as Prowl somehow managed a purely mental smirk.

“How long did you morons keep the modules in place without removing them?” Ratchet asked once more. Jazz rocked backward from the force of a full frame scan. How the medic made an energy scan hurt was beyond Jazz, but the sadist seemed to enjoy making others flinch.

“Um –” Jazz thought back and held silent as he flinched at the timetable his processors gave him.

“Since we landed at the Fall of Paraxus.”

“Slagging, stupid, dumb-aft moronic younglings! After that much time, you two are lucky your repair nanites hadn’t either identified them as threats and destroyed your uplink slots or incorporated each other’s data modules into your own frames!”

“Is there a precedent for this situation?” Prowl asked flatly, but his hand sought out Jazz’s in a silent request for comfort. The move was telling, and only increased Jazz’s own terror.

“Yes, there is ‘a precedent’. It’s called a field bond. You two forged dual link bonds with the data modules, but that can only happen with repeat plug-ins and extended periods of time. With the bi-directionality of the  link, this also means you two swapped host positions.”

“Uh, basically.” Jazz shrugged, and gaped as Ratchet began spewing Thetacon curses that even Steelhand refused to utter as being too vulgar.

“Well, friggin’ congratulations. You two are bonded. With the length of time you two put into this level of stupidity I’d say you’re as good as resonance aligned by now.”

Jazz felt his faceplates prickle. Prowl’s door wings stiffened. Both were mortified. “It's not like we just decided to form life bonds! For the love of Primus, we’re not swapping cables here! We’re trying to keep good mechs alive an’ this was our only option!”

Ratchet raised his hands in defeat and sighed. “I’m sorry, I’ve been trapped too long with no one to yell at. I’m out of practice. Listen, you two basically tied your sparks together. You each could go out, find good femmes and make lives for yourselves. However, no matter what you do, you each will continue to live in each other’s processors. This is not reversible. If one of you connects to another via data module both of you will be included in the conversation. This type of thing has driven others insane.”

“However, this has only strengthened both of us,” Prowl stared Ratchet down.

“Enlighten me.” Ratchet challenged.

“See for yourself.” Prowl held out a memory chip to Ratchet. The medic took it gingerly, scanned it then plugged it into his arm. Ratchet’s optics dimmed, then brightened. A condensed synopsis of their shared command unfolded in his processors. Their first encounter, the fight for Paraxus, their forced-promotion in the field all ran across Ratchet’s processors in a swiftly scrolling rundown of how frequently the shared connection saved the pair’s collective skid plates.

“Well, call me the Unmaker’s uncle. As long as you two can manage this without terminating each other there is nothing I nor anyone else can do to help you.” Ratchet handed back the memory chip, shook his helm and walked away, grumbling softly about idiotic tacticians and spies with reduced processing capacity.

Jazz looked to Prowl, already knowing the chip held Prowl’s history of crashes, Jazz’s influence on keeping them at bay; Jazz’s fear of leading, and Prowl’s silent support that helped him overcome that all-consuming dread. ‘So, guess we don’t need the data modules anymore.’

‘No, and we have an ally in the know on our side.’ Prowl nodded towards Ratchet’s back. Jazz knew his friend was right. Ratchet would keep this silent. Jazz mulled over Ratchet’s words.

“ ‘As good as resonance aligned’.” Jazz looked at Prowl, maybe Ratchet was right. Maybe this was as close as they would get to that ultimate connection of true love – resonance alignment – maybe they were meant to be together. Jazz thought back to their first meeting in Praxus. Prowl had been a snubbed enforcer with superior capabilities. Jazz had been a rookie agent on his first solo mission. Jazz had been awed by Prowl’s processing capacity, and supreme emotional controls – it had been love at first plug-in.

‘That is not precisely how the encounter proceeded.’ Prowl interrupted Jazz’s thoughts, but a smile lingered in his mental voice. ‘You were terrified, I was ill prepared for our experience and yet I found your drive to fulfill your goals and protect the mechs assigned to us charming.’

‘So, who fell first?’ Jazz asked with a self-conscious grin.

‘A better question: Should this be pursued given our shared position? We have obligations to the troops, the entirety of the Autobot forces and our world. A deeper relationship will only cause trouble.’

Jazz sighed, Prowl was right. They could open their sparks to one another, find out if this accidental bond could become more, or they could keep going the route they had followed so far and try to save their world. The two options seemed mutually exclusive.

“What is life worth if there is nothing to live for?” Prowl mused out loud. Jazz flinched at the sudden words but smiled.

“It ain’t worth much. We take things slow and see what happens. Worst case, we shake hands and go our separate ways.”

“It will not be so easy.” Prowl shook his helm. “How do we live normal lives like this?”

“Ain’t ya lookin’ a bit too far forward, mech? Although, I do like the optimism.” Jazz winked then stood with a smile. “The Ratch-mech will have my plating for staying too long, and Ironhide is getting guard-withdrawal. He’s bound to find me sooner or later for want of a Prime to babysit.”

“Keep Ironhide close. I want Steelhand at my side. We keep guards for ourselves. We are the smallest mechs of the command staff, and the easiest to terminate. Get guards on Magnus, Elita, Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor. Include honor guard positions for all field command officers and promotion opportunities for volunteer guard duty with extra emphasis on keeping our numbers functioning.” Prowl paused as his processors spun.

“Megatron killed Sentinel. We do not want defeatists or swayed loyalties to terminate the few top officers we have at present.” Prowl kept his projected statistics for turncoats and traitors to himself, but Jazz could feel the numbers were not inspiring.

Jazz left the small room in silence and sought out Skids for restructured duty assignments. It was time to start shaping up this band of rejects into an army.

*|*

“How come we don’t have any of the good stuff?” Sideswipe whined. His head sank as he poked at the grayed corpse at his peds.

“What use is subspace storage to a gladiator?” Sunstreaker scoffed, but internally, he agreed with his brother. Gladiators were not allowed to have subspace compartments, and when the house took ownership of them, their transformation cogs were taken as well.

Still, smug pride filled both their sparks as they scrounged through the remains of the terminated jets on the ground. Unarmed, with only the raw metal of broken beams and the raised skeletons of the destroyed city around them they had defeated three jets.

Sideswipe pulled on a blaster array on one of the jet’s fuselage. “Hey, look. Think we could use these?”

“Beam weapons convert energon into ammunition. They have to connect to our fuel lines.” Sunstreaker shrugged a shoulder.

“So, we open a line and patch in. With all the injuries we’ve taken, it won’t even hurt.” Sideswipe grinned.

Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Why did I get an idiot for a brother?” He spotted a blade, with a twisted grin he picked it up and turned on his brother. “Open up.”

“What? Uh, Sunny, wait – wait! Can’t we find a medic for this!”

*|*

“So, if you were here to rescue me, then why the _frag_ am I only seeing you now?” Ratchet demanded as he loomed over Elita and Magnus. How he managed to loom over mechs twice his height, no one knew.

“Ratchet, I think I’ve lost something. But, no one seems to notice but me and Magnus.” Elita worried her little finger, denta scrapping at the plating.

“What about Orion? Have you asked him?” Ratchet asked as he inspected Magnus’ spinal assembly. The intricate array of muscle cables, struts, neural lines and sensor nodes took on the most stress and damage to the large mech’s body.

“Orion? Who’s that?” Magnus asked.

Ratchet pulled back, optics wide as he stared from one to the other. “Magnus, are you telling me you have no memory of your brother?”

“My brother – ” Magnus trailed off.

Elita gasped.

_Ariel looked up from her work … the brother pair … signed on as loaders … chatting brightly, Orion Pax and Dion … the warehouse near Dead End …_

“Primus!” Elita gasped, memories flooded her systems in a deluge. “How did I forget –”

“You didn’t.” Ratchet unplugged one cable from Magnus as he looked at Ariel. “It was a core memory suppressant virus. I’ve never seen one this strong before. It tagged every memory file of Orion and blocked memory access and recall. Whoever infected the two of you, however, they infected you, they created a perfect short-term memory control vector. The virus terminated itself once you broke the retention barrier.”

“Where’s my brother?” Magnus asked, optics wide and desperate.

“He – I felt him in a strange room in the bottom levels. It was an empty room with rows of seats and a strange door.” Elita shook her helm. “I don’t know where he is, but I know that door does not exist in this base.”

“The door is brown, it has strange patterns and an image of a star system no one knows of is graved into it.” Ratchet muttered.

“How?” Magnus asked, but cut himself off at Ratchet’s glare.

“I don’t know! It’s an undated memory file. I told all of you once that I was old.” Ratchet shrugged. “ ‘Hidden stars, when sought in the void stay hiding. Needed stars send light the Chosen truth now finding.’ It’s part of a proverb from a forgotten Golden Age. I doubt there’s a mech alive who knows what it means or what the whole of it is. It’s all I know about those blasted doors.”

“He’s not the only one missing. Ratchet, we’re missing over twenty personnel since we came to this base.” Magnus clasped hands that shook.

“When you arrived, was anybot here? There should have been over two hundred mechs on recovery, light duty, rehabilitation or bed rest. I haven’t seen even one of them for follow-ups, and those are only the most recent ones. With how long I’ve been here I’ve lost count of how many I treated.”

“No, no one. This place was abandoned when we came.” Elita spoke softly, her vents silenced as she breathed.

“You two are cleared, I need you back for follow-ups in three orns to ensure that virus is out of your systems. This means no line-based data sharing, no cable swapping and for Primus’ sake do not go bonding with anybot until my say so.”

Elita chuckled sadly, “Until I find Orion, that won’t be a problem.”

“Get out, and find Wheeljack for me along with those two pipsqueaks calling themselves commanders. We might have a very big problem.” Ratchet ordered, and with the terrifying calmness, he radiated, neither Magnus nor Elita complained.

“Sir.” The pair saluted and left, both desperately trying to shake the tingling down their back struts that something terrible was about to happen.

*|*

He could feel them, their sparks. He could sense them gutter in the firefight, and for each light lost, he grieved. Optimus kept his back against the shattered base of a wall. Where he was, which city this had been, he did not know. This place, like so many, had joined the shifting sands of the glim desert – the sands formed by the blood of the dead.

Seekers screamed overhead. Ground units pounded across the metal plating under the city. Missiles exploded, lasers split the darkness. Optimus stared out from his hiding spot and prayed to survive this. No single mech should face a Decepticon long patrol alone.

A scream sounded behind him. Another Decepticon fell at his feet. Optimus swallowed tightly against the energon rising in his throat. “Thank you, Roller.” He muttered to his smaller component – one the Ancients’ had not shown him during his training. Halfway across the city his trailer lay flat on the ground, sides unfurled to bare its internals and the hidden weaponry within.

Roller had surprised him, shooting out of the trailer when a blast had knocked him sideways into a broken building. The trailer unfolding, revealing a third part of himself – a combat deck. He shuttered his optics as several Decepticons terminated as his combat deck launched a missile from its turret. Roller sent him an all-clear signal, the combat deck sent its own. Optimus tried to wrap his helm around his body talking to him without his control.

_Did Magnus go through this? Or Elita? How have they stayed sane? Did this drive Sentinel to his madness?_

Optimus leaned out, aimed and fired towards several spark resonances near his position. Hand out, he leaped over a low wall, rolled over his shoulder and blasted two more sets of disembodied red optics as he shifted to his alt mode. His cab felt lighter without the trailer. Freed of the excess weight he barreled out of the death maze. Sixteen lengths out of the city, clear of the falling walls and brittle towers, Optimus regained his root mode, felt a pulse vibrate throughout his entire being and launched several massive ion-blasts from his rifle at full power. In an astro, the city erupted in light as the discharged energy impacted the solid mass of buildings and incinerated them.

Optimus shuddered, so many lives lost. He turned, staggered and stared at the trailer waiting for him. He felt Roller securely locked in place within. _How?_ It hit him. The pulse, somehow that energy had allowed the trailer to – _can this thing perform a localized space warp?_ – move out of danger and find him. _Impossible._

“Remind me to skip the city route next time.” Optimus wasn’t sure if he was talking to the trailer or himself. He shoved the awkward thoughts away, folded down into his cab form and locked into his trailer. He once more targeted Rura Penthe and prayed this would be the last of his encounters with the Decepticons.

*|*

“I look hideous,” Sunstreaker growled his displeasure. His once golden plating now had sections cut from it. Tubes connected the pirated weaponry to his energon systems. Glowing pink, the lines showed his lifeblood pulsing from his frame into the ugly chrome and black lasers strapped to his upper arms. The sight was unnerving.

“I told you we should wait for a medic,” Sideswipe grinned. He loved the image they made. Red and gold frames tarnished dull, threatening. Their own mechblood oozing from them, giving life to gleaming weapons only fliers could sustain. They were the monsters that preyed on Decepticons. The were the Pit Hounds loosed by Unicron’s own hand from the depths of the Pit.

Twenty Decepticons had faced them, none had posed much of a challenge. “If we waited for a medic the last batch of scum would have killed you.” Sunstreaker eyed the scorch mark on his brother’s chest plate. That blast could have taken Sideswipe from him.

“Maybe, but you got him first. That was awesome!” Sideswipe crowed. Victory still pulsed in his spark. The Decepticons were nothing compared to a Gladiator – even less when facing two.

“You got me into this.” Sunstreaker griped.

Sideswipe shrugged. He couldn’t argue with the truth. He used to hear older mechs complaining about regrets, back when he had been someone else when he had been Double-Cross and had loved Ranger with all his spark. Back then, he had feared to do something bad because she would have gotten angry, and he might regret it.

Now, he wanted to laugh at who he had been. That innocent mechling had understood nothing. There was no such thing as regret. Sure, he and Sunny could have told each other what they were up to, but they would not be alive now if they had. They both knew it was true. The sheltered Spin-Out, the power crazed Double-Cross; neither of them would have survived a moment in here. They hadn’t survived even one vorn in the Rings.

“What’s that?” Sunstreaker jostled Sideswipe from his musings.

“What’s what?”

“That.”

Sideswipe peered into the distance. He slitted his optics and whistled, “Nice. Bro, we have a challenge.”

Both brothers grinned a bloodthirsty leer. A single mech, a massive fighter streaked across the shifting sands. Dust blurred the mech’s coloration, but they could sense the battle systems humming in the distant figure. Target acquired, the two loped across the sands. Long, easy strides devoured the land.

It would take time, but after this large of an opponent, the Decepticons would know their names. Team Sigma-Six still lived!

*|*

 

Prowl had kept quiet this whole time. Groons of planning and debate over their next course of action had passed without Prowl saying a word. Jazz had never stopped fidgeting. Ratchet wanted to strangle the both of them. “So, _great leaders_ , what are we going to do? I have _hundreds_  of missing patients, you have missing soldiers and I _really_ want to get the slag out of here.”

No one spoke, but everyone moved. Fifty mechs had crowded into a room that would have been cozy with eight. Ratchet wanted to scream and throw a temper fit. There was no need for three generals, seven tacticians, four specialists and every slagging mech with an ego-complex on base to demand to be in here. Still, Jazz let it slide, and Prowl had let him.

“Dodecad sweep teams through all floors of this base. I want a physical count of rooms, compartments and cassette-slots. Wheeljack, you have the greatest knowledge of this base and its operational capacities. Take a team, obtain prisoner records, incarceration counts, and dates of prisoner acquisitions. Ratchet has been trapped here in a hidden medical wing for an unknown amount of time. None of the patients he has mended have reported for duty or shown up for any follow-up medical attention. Either the missing mechanoids have been retained here, or they have been transported somewhere else.”

Jazz finally sat up, “Magnus, Elita, can the pair o’ ya assign some heavies to sweep for underground access hatches?”

“Of course.” Magnus nodded willingly, “Do you believe our missing have been taken via intra-planetary routes?”

“No,” Prowl looked every bot over in the room. Silence stretched on. “It is my fear that Rura Penthe was built on the shoulders of a city-former.”

Gasps sounded, optics darted as they looked around the now-suspicious room. A city-former. A mech so massive, built on such an immense scale, that he or she possessed an alt form of an entire city. Those mechanoids often had subunits of themselves, smaller mechs that could operate independently from their main body.

All optics tracked to Ratchet.

“How do we know he isn’t part of this city-former?” Deftwing asked, optics calculating.

“Do you doubt my word?” Ironhide asked. Confirmation codes pinged in from Magnus, Elita, Steelhand, Wheeljack, and Afterburn simultaneously. Deftwing shut his mouth with a snap. Wide optics stared at Ratchet in surprise.

“What next, he becomes the next Prime?” Deftwing grumbled, but fell silent under the pressure of a half dozen optics glaring at him.

“You have your assignments. We find our missing brethren. Dismissed.” Ultra Magnus barked the order.

“Ratch,” Wheeljack looked to his brother, retreating to the small nook he used as a weapon’s repair location. He hoped they would have privacy here.

“Something gnawing on your circuits?” Ratchet asked with a groan as he sagged onto a stool.

“Look at these.” He passed a data pad as he took up another stool.

“What? ‘Jack, where did you get these schematics from?” Ratchet asked, voice terrifingly soft.

“I took a minibot team into the access hatches. They traced circuits behind each cell down into some type of generator. There was no power, but something didn’t seem right.

_“…Ambassador Tarn, as requested, special prison Rura Penthe for Decepticon deserters…Autobot police crimes…infinite storage capacity…”_

“Ratch!” Ratchet flinched, the almost remembered fragment fading before he could catch it.

“I think, I’ve heard of this place before. Something bad is going on, Jack. We need to get out.” Ratchet shuddered and handed back the schematic. They both knew there was too much information missing for them to know what was going on, but they both felt the dread that filled this place.

They looked at each other, “We need to warn Prowl and Jazz!”

The search could not happen, they felt a foreboding filling their sparks. Every living mechanoid had to leave ths place, it felt like a death trap. Ratchet just hoped they weren’t too late.


	12. Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Prowl face their first battle without a Prime. Losing is not an option, but without a miracle, their only option may be surrender.

Wheeljack audios wouldn’t stop ringing. His helm hurt, so did his vocal processors. He wanted to shutter his optics but he couldn’t look away. _Too fast._ He forced an intake and flinched as the ringing stopped. It wasn’t ringing – he was screaming. Jack forced his optics to shutter and reset, only the recharge flux didn’t go away.

“Self-termination, they’ve even taken that away from me now.” Ratchet’s voice spoke through a medical drone, through _all_ the medical drones. Fifteen white, faceless drones worked around the injured; energon and coolant slicked the floor.

Jack stayed hidden, kept himself folded under a med berth like a coward, as the tentacles reaching from the walls held Ratchet suspended high above the floor. White walls, pink, blue, gray and black stained the floors. The white med bots moved with Ratchet’s determination around the injured, mending mechs who had last been seen on the other side of the planet.

“Ratch!” Jack heard his own voice cry out, heard the pounding of his own pedes as the medical ward sped past him. He was running. He felt like a doll, with someone else controlling his body.

“More incoming. Run Jack, save the others.” Ratchet’s voice sounded from everywhere. Jack ran faster and slipped below the incoming pod filled with the injured and spilled mechblood. Shimmering raindrops splatted on his armor as he passed through the temporary hole in the wall –

“Ratchet?” Jack looked around optics wide and terrified as he took in the pale, empty, shimmering desert sparkling under the brilliant stars. Rura Penthe was gone.

*|*

Twisted corridors continually wound ahead and out of sight. Jazz felt his struts stiffen as he searched the top tier of cells, from the raised walkway his processor spun with vertigo. These cells, they had been made to hold guardians. The massive bots built to protect the most ancient of cities, coded to self-destruct when and if their cities fell, how could they have been placed in here? Dark stains rained down the walls, thick and crusting, the remnants screamed of torture.

Jazz ripped his optics from the mute horror in the stains and looked around te cell. There were five mechs with him, but he could barely make out Ironhide on the ground below. A sinister vibe filled the echoing spaces. Each of the seven cells had been empty, only dust, dark stains, and recharge fluxes remained.

“Clear,” Ironhide spoke, startling Jazz from his musings. “You alright, there?”

“Yeah mech, just getting’ the feelin’ we’ve overstayed our welcome.” Jazz shuddered as he signaled his small team to move out, and prayed that whoever had been held here had terminated long ago. He did not want to meet an angry guardian with a grudge.

‘Jazz, we have our cell counts, but no one can find Wheeljack and Ratchet.’ Prowl’s voice sounded through Jazz’s processors. The ride along they had started so may vorns ago had become something more powerful, and like the stains marring the walls of the cells, inherently terrifying.

“Hide, we’ve got a problem.” Jazz relayed Prowl’s commands as he ran, with each corridor, they gathered more mechs, and worry grew. No one knew where Ratchet and Wheeljack had gone, not even the guards and mechs assigned to them. Rura Penthe was feeling like a tomb.

*|*

They were gaining on him. Optimus kept a sensor on the figures coming in his direction. They scared him. Two figures, no alt modes, pole vaulted across the broken landscape using buildings like stepping stones. They were smaller, slender, maybe Ironhide’s height. They looked like protoforms. Clear tubes hung outside their frames, glowing pink mechblood surged through the tubes, exposing their lines to the world.

Optimus was glad he was in alt mode, his tanks were queasy, and without energon reserves, he dared not puke out here. He sped up, he slowed down, he fled further into the desert and crept closer to the ruined city raising to the skies like a broken spine barred from its plating. Those two, those monsters – scraplets wearing mech armor. Devourers of the dead, wearing the exoskeletons of their kills. Whatever they were the images would not leave Optimus, and he only knew fear.

Seeker-class blasters were mounted on their arms, tied down with dead-grey muscle cables. Somewhere in this desert formed from the dead, the husks of seekers remained, still and broken with muscle cables, energon lines, and blasters stolen from their corpses to decorate these monsters’ frames.

“Primus really doesn’t like me this orn,” Optimus growled and sped up once more, the pair kept pace as they pole vaulted across the sundered landscape on one side. On the other side, Starscream approached leading the command trine. A column of dust blocked out the stars as Megatron’s ground troops barreled across the shifting dunes below.

Monsters on one side, Decepticons on the other, and Rura Penthe was still just a vague dot on his radar. Optimus revved his engine and red-lined his accelerator. Elita’s face overlaid across his optics, her soft gaze making his intakes tighten and his resolve to survive this harden. He had to find her, he would not let her go now. Not after all he had gone through without being able to say good-bye.

*|*

“Slag it!” Afterburn swore from outside Rura Penthe. The prison glowed with an eerie light. Several transports had been intercepted, the small flying drones had appeared through a land bridge, the glowing tunnel from anywhere on the planet or one of its satellites vanishing the instant the transport had left its EM-control field. The flitters had been filled with the broken and dying. Autobots and Decepticons thrown together, their life blood spilling into one another’s wounds.

A nearby crack in the planet’s plating led them down into the shell of their god. Sheltered in a rent in Primus’ frame the injured were laid out, Questro moving from one guttering spark to the next, a constant sub-audial keening emanating from her frame as one life after another slipped from her grasp. Every soldier not wrangling the flitters was at her side, or resting in another crevasse.

Ironhide and Stelhand guarded a separate nook, the sole guardians for the two mechs that carried their army on their too-small shoulders. From within voices raised as every remaining commander had their say in this royal snafu they had found themselves in. Afterburn looked to the thin strip of sky visible through the crack leading to the surface.

“Primus take it!” He snarled, peds stomping as he paced. Dismissed from the argument, not needed on wrangling duty, and everyone forbidden from searching Rura Penthe for their missing engineer and medic it was too much to bear.

“Field General, sir?” Skids, their current troop administrator stood beside him, the mini-bot never even flinched at the tirade.

“Yes, Skids?” Afterburn huffed with a sour mix of exhaustion and fury.

“Sir, there is something beyond our predicament chewing your circuits.”

“That’s not a question, is it?” Afterburn smiled at the stars humorlessly. “I found something in subspace I wasn’t supposed to forget about.”

His hand opened at optic level to Skids, a shimmering blue cube rested in the palm of his hand.

“What’s in it?” Skids asked an excited tremor ran through his circuits despite never once touching the blue cube before his optics.

“These belong to Ratchet. They’re backups of his rank under my command before his transfer and his field kit. When I found out he’d been stripped of everything I found all his supplies, and vowed to get them back to him – only we never found him.”

“And when you did he was too busy with us for you to remember what you held.” Skids finished and scrubbed a hand across the top of his helm. “This is royally slagged up.”

“It is, and it's only just getting interesting. I don’t want to still be missing Ratchet when things get messy.” Afterburn rumbled and stalked away, tucking the little cube back into his subspace.

They both knew what was to happen. If they couldn’t find Ratchet soon, Afterburn would have to give Questro Ratchet’s gear and old rank – but they both knew that she was still too green for the task.

“Why couldn’t she have had a megavorn more experience already?” Skids asked himself the question as he turned back to the fiasco of a meeting. The sentiment was unfair to Questro, she was strong, capable, talented, but still raw – and firstly trained as a soldier, only then as a medic. She was good on the field, but they needed someone who could rule the ward without the rank and file or brass trying to run over her. She just didn’t have the oxidation to handle the hard cases yet. Skids had seen her fold too often already.

*|*

Jazz wanted to scream, he wanted to yell and rant or just get a blaster and smoke every mech in the room. They wouldn't shut up. They blamed every mech in this rabble, except themselves for losing Ratchet, for losing mechs to Rura Penthe. Someone finally noticed Orion was missing and now that was Prowls fault for reasons that made little sense.

“This meeting is over, Ironhide, Steelhand, clear them out!” Jazz bellowed, and hated himself already. He felt weak against the larger commanders. If he had an energon blade, a good distraction, and thirty astroseconds, he’d have the room on the floor screaming in no time. But, making mechs twice and thrice his size leave when they didn’t want to? That took a mech with more mass than he had.

“You’re not a Prime, lad, and that’s their issue.” Ironhide rumbled once the little nook was empty save for the two little commanders and their guards.

“Ugh!” Jazz’s fingers formed claws as he curled his hands towards the ceiling in disgust and frustration. “We need to get back into that damned prison! We need a small crew, one hexad, and _they_ want to send in the entire army blasters on full power!”

“Of course, they do, it's what they’ve trained for.” Steelhand knelt to Jazz’s optic level, “You know what is at stake, you know opps and how much each maneuver costs us. They know troop numbers, deployment vectors and balancing wins to losses. Find a way to use their skills in your favor, make them do what they need to. You’ll do fine.”

“It is not so easy.” Prowl spoke flatly from his position leaning against the wall. “Each of them is rebelling in their own way to not having a Prime. We need a more powerful commander. I would recommend Ultra Magnus but he has already adamantly refused the post, as has Elita and Afterburn. The ones who covet the post are the least suited, and would only follow in Sentinels ill-planned ped steps.”

“Enough lads, one o’ ya rest. The other, get top side. The troops need to know their leaders are still there for them.” Ironhide rumbled, and watched as the smaller pair immediately moved to recharge or walk patrol without pause.

_-:- They’re uncanny, it's kinda creepy -:-_ Steelhand radioed Ironhide with a tremor in his voice.

Hide only nodded once and stood near Jazz as the smaller bot passed out into a fitful recharge. Hide watched the tableau of the army before him, injured and terminating filling the rent in their god’s armor. Their few med bots on the knife's edge of breakdown from the losses. Too many missing, the festering wound where their Prime’s energy had once resided in now ached hollowly. Through it all, Prowl marched in Steelhand’s shadow, too small of a mech standing alone for too big of a job. They were broken. A fractured army in a losing battle and no hope in sight.

*|*

“Get the seekers,” Sideswipe grinned as he focused on the trine firing on their prey.

“Down the ‘Cons, destroy the heavy when they’re gone?” Sunstreaker smirked and leaped from his rooftop. The pole impacted the earth, making his arms tremble with the force. He levered himself towards the heavy, landed on the big energon-loader’s roof and leaped at one of the seekers as it veered too close.

A ringing howl split the battle din as Sunstreaker slammed his talons into the seeker’s fuselage. The flier shrieked, sped up and barrel rolled. Sunstreaker howled to the skies and slammed talons deeper into the seeker’s side. Below him, Sideswipe toyed with the ground troops challenging them for their prey.

Sideswipe could spend his energon on firing his laser blasts. Sunstreaker grinned with an insane cast to his features as he ripped a primary energon line open – and drank deeply. The seeker screamed and vanished. Sunstreaker bellowed as he plummeted towards the ground. His scream turned into a rallying cry as the heavy appeared below him, still barreling across the cold landscape with more Cons on his aft. Sunstreaker grunted with the impact, rolled over his shoulder and leaped at the nearest con. He was still thirsty.

Sideswipe grinned as he fired more shots off at the encroaching army. His brother was feeling good today. He heard a laugh and felt a shock when he realized the laugh was his. The fighting had always been perilous, rarely guaranteed victory. Yet, this fight, Sideswipe just knew they would win.

“Behind you!” A deep voice roared. Sideswipe spun, as a fist bigger than his helm slapped a Con into the dust. For a split second, the world seemed to stop. Sideswipe watched the Con slam into the dust, frame shattering on impact. The heavy stood over everyone, optics blazing. Suddenly a rocket launched into the two remaining seekers, cannon fire slammed into the ground troops. A miniature mech rolled between the larger ground fighters, taking out knee joints and blasting exposed wiring.

_:: How did our prey go from one mech to three? ::_ Sideswipe felt the question leave his processors before he could stop it. Sunstreaker’s predicted snort came across the bond. _Yeah, like he’d know any more than I do._ Sideswipe looked the field over, suddenly realizing there was little left but broken mechs and smoking plating.

“That was quick.” Sunstreaker rumbled, displeased.

“Thanks to you both, it was.” The heavy responded, oblivious to the smaller fighters’ ire. “I am Optimus Prime.”

Sunstreaker looked to his brother, optic ridge raised incredulously.

“Is that supposed to mean something to us?”

Optimus felt his lines freeze. _Everybot_ knew in their primordial coding to respect the Prime. Decepticons went through a recognition corrupting program, it prevented the Prime’s commands from overriding their loyalty initiatives. No matter how loyal the Con, they _always_ recognized the Prime, but these two were clueless.

“I was hoping it would.” Optimus hid his renewed fear of these two mechs, ground-based protoforms that could pluck seekers from the skies. “May I have the designations of the mechs that saved me?”

“Leave him, he’s an _Autobot_ ” one of the smaller fighters snarled and walked away.

“Wait,” Optimus looked over the rubble around him. “I can offer you energon and transport to a medical ward. Those gashes are rusting. At least let me offer you that much.”

“And the price?” the other asked.

“You watch my back. I will not ask you to fight my battles for me, but additional optics would help.”

The pair locked optics, and Optimus suddenly had the sinking suspicion that these two shared some type of bond. He regretted making the offer already. “I made assumptions, I offer my apologies. I will continue on my way, and you two are free to do as you wish.” Optimus folded down into his alt-mode, trailer and Roller reattaching to his hitch as he moved out.

“No strings?” one of the two stood in front of him, kneeling down, hand on his hood.

“There is nothing to bind us,” Optimus replied.

“Okay, but from now on, we do the fighting. You don’t get to have all the fun. I’m Sideswipe, the chatterbox is Sunny - ow!”

Optimus stared as the two tussled, save for the lack of spilled energon they looked more fierce with each other than they had been with the Decepticons.

“The name is Sunstreaker.” The mech looked at Optimus with lethal optics, “ _Sun-streaker._ ”

Optimus pinged a response and got static.

“You two don’t have radios?” He asked incredulously.

“Radios? Nope. No subspace, alt modes, radios, signal beacons, onboard weapons, save for what we’ve added ourselves.” Sideswipe grinned and shrugged.

“Do you ever shut up?” Sunstreaker punched his partner.

“Then hop on, no fighting or I will throw you.” Optimus offered and promised simultaneously.

The pair stared at him until he thought he thought they might attack him.

“Fine, don’t scratch my plating.” Sunstreaker snarled and sat gingerly on Optimus’ trailer. Optimus sent his scanners towards the stars, hoping they were really close to Rura Penthe and already regretting this processor ache he had signed himself up for.

*|*

“Slagging Pits!” Jack slammed his fists into a broken building. This was insane! He could barely reach Rura Penthe on the comms, but no one was picking up. The base felt shielded, his comrades were out of signal range, and he was picking up a massive presence with three energy reading heading in his direction.

With a worried huff, Jack flipped himself backward and down folding into his high-velocity land speeder alt-mode and barreled towards the prison colony. He could make it on his energon reserves – barely. If he could plot a straight-line trajectory without slowing down, he could do it.

Tanks clenched in worry, Jack tried to plot his course. The old satellite system was down in this area. No aerial surveillance, no triangulation. He sighted the prison with his long range scanners and locked in his course. At his speeds, any obstacles would need a twenty length warning just to maneuver around them. Primus help him and anyone in his way if he had to stop. Between his velocity, the lack of traction in the sand and poor visibility stopping wasn’t an option, or at least not one that included a high chance of surviving.

Time, at these velocities time became irrelevant. One couldn’t plot trajectories, minute course corrections, run long range scans and short range ground surveys while integrating all data and still be able to think. It wasn’t possible, and Jack was worried because he knew he was thinking! Ratchet, alone, trapped once more in that damned cell. Where had the medical drones gone after they had saved Ratch? When did the drone ward vanish? Why hadn’t anyone noticed? Too many questions.

“Dam – !”

Jack slowly powered back up. Everything hurt, his optics were on the fritz, and his transformation cog was n longer functional. He took stock of himself. “Thank Primus.” He clenched his fingers and swiveled his peds. He had reverted to his root mode before the damage had occurred.

He looked out of a shattered building, A hole in the wall still rained dust from his violent entrance. This was what he had been afraid of, only on a more dire scale. A single floor of a broken building still remained, and he his speed prevented him from shifting on such short notice around the building. He turned his scanners to Rura Penthe and froze. He didn’t know how many there were, or how far they reached, but Rura Penthe was surrounded.

“Wait! I know this building!” Jack pulled the energon schematics from the prison’s underground unit. “There.” He found a conduit, one that had been traced out to this building. His minibots had marked the exit. They always used something clever – _there_. The sign of the unmaker, a warning this led to Ratchet’s ward in Rura Penthe.

“Well, at least if I can get Ratch to yell at me I’ll have a good chance of surviving this.” He slipped through a crack in the floor and set miniature explosives at intervals. The Cons might find the entrance, but none would survive to report it.

*|*

“So, what’s a Prime?” Sideswipe asked. His questions never ceased, nor did his boasting. Paired with his partner’s preening over ruined armor, Optimus was ready to throw himself to the Cons and be done with them.

“Without primordial coding to build on, I am not sure I can say.” Another hedged question. Optimus didn’t want the distraction and didn’t know how much he should or shouldn’t say. He really missed Elita and Magnus. They would know what to do, especially with the Matrix resting silently in his chest. Since being released by the Ancients he had had no contact with the former Primes. The absence, though welcome, was worrying.

“Sentinel.” Sunstreaker spoke up, nearly making Optimus swerve, “Megatron mentioned him once, Sentinel Prime, leader of the Autobots.”

“I don’t remember that.” Sideswipe mused, a moment of silence passed. “Oh, no wonder.”

Optimus wanted to ask but knew they would give him silence. They could boast for a full orn about their ring fights, but ask them a question and suddenly they couldn’t be bothered to speak.

“Megatron watched the fights.” Optimus kept himself from asking a question. Maybe, if he just let them do the talking.

“Of course. We killed the weaklings, any who survived us long enough were offered leadership positions.” Sunstreaker replied flatly, there was no pride in his tone this time.

“Did he offer you the same?” He expected silence.

“Many times.” Sideswipe shrugged.

Sunstreaker snickered, “Yeah, he actually commanded us to kill each other.”

“But there was no audience, who kills without spectators?” Sideswipe sighed.

“If there had been a crowd, would you?” Optimus asked, not sure what he was expecting from them. He wanted to hear that they were too loyal to each other –

“If they had let us, maybe. The last time I tried to kill a partner, they stopped me.” Sunstreaker replied with a dire tone in his voice. Optimus kept silent.

The stars wheeled overhead, dim off-cycle leading to brilliant on-cycle, and back again. They still were another full orn outside of radio distance, and two orns more after that before they reached Rura Penthe.

It was only later that Optimus realized the pair had not spoken another word. The silence he had prayed for had gotten heavy. Whatever theirs was, it was between these two and promised trouble.

*|*

The scouts had just returned, and any hopes of good news faded instantly. The Decepticons had found them. No one had sighted Megatron, but they had brought in monsters for the assault on Rura Penthe. Images hovered over the planning table, captured video feeds creating multi-dimensional models of the Cons position and their troop strength.

“And these, are you sure?” Prowl asked the scout leader, Outback.

“Positive, they all had matching badging. They’re combiners, sirs, four of them.”

Jazz held himself still by sheer force of will. He couldn’t afford to pace, and seem weak.

“Assign heavies to each combiner team. Flank them with regular troops, hold snipers in reserve to cover them.” Prowl commanded quickly, around the table other commanders silently argued strategy. Here, silent comms were useful, no matter what Prowl spoke out loud, eavesdroppers would only hear part of their strategy.

Heavies, their hardest hitting troops. They were borderline insane, crazier than the Wreckers, and had the highest armor densities short of Ironhide. Afterburn’s troops had had a decent number during the Praxus theater.

“Three units have heavies, each is waiting and at three-quarter capacity. They’ve lost the fewest since we arrived.” Skids read off his data, saving Prowl the processing capacity.

Jazz looked to his partner, once more he was reminded of how powerful the tactician was. Prowl’s systems hummed as he crunched the numbers and generated plans. Optics dim, wings flared, Prowl looked intimidating.

_Being shorter than him does increase the intimidation factor._ Jazz reminded himself, only he and Skids were shorter than Prowl in this room. The other mechs, who knew what they thought, Jazz just hoped Prowl scared the coolant out of them.

“If they stick to standard Decepticon measures, they won't strike until the ground forces are in position. We have two orns. Their largest mechs move too slowly to get in range before then.” Prowl stood straighter, sings high. The other tacticians flinched as they received his data packet with troop predictions.

He would never show it, but watching them scurry to external consuls to handle the processing load was a point of pride. Prowl’s processors weren’t even taxed, and his _colleagues_ couldn’t even handle the numbers.

Jazz and Prowl shared a glance, they had two orns to get ready for their first battle filling Sentinel’s role. Three joor recovery time was not enough, but it was all they had. The question remained: Would their troops stay loyal without a Prime?

*|*

Jack slipped through the dry drainage shafts below Rura Penthe. These connected to the guardian cells. He looked up from the grating in the floor and shuddered. These drains were wide enough for a battalion of Ultra Magnus-sized mechs to march through.

Jack shuddered and loped to the ground entrance. This door, sized for a normal sized mech, who built it in here – and why? Stains on the walls, along the floors, even dark splatters on the ceilings screamed of violence. Jack suddenly didn’t want to know. He had to find Ratchet. He raced through the base, only the medical ward stood empty. The hollow void beyond untouched since they had broken through the walls the first time.

Jack could detect Ratchet’s signature, but not pinpoint it. Rura Penthe felt like Ratchet, yet empty. Optical scanners, video feeds, they were all humming but betrayed nothing. This whole place was alive and sinister.

Jack broke, half a duty cycle alone in that place was enough. He bolted for the main exit and prayed to actually get there this time.

*|*

_“Before time began, there was the Cube.”_

Their two orns were up. Preparations were still in progress, but they were as ready as they’d ever be.

_“We know not where it comes from, only that it holds the power to create worlds and fill them with life.”_

They knelt, listening to Ironhide’s voice recite the ‘Annals of Creation’; they’re final prayer before battle.

_“Thus our world was born. First to walk upon the home we were to inherit were brothers, twins, the most sacred and rarest of our kind. They were the first, know as Primus the Creator, and Unicron the Unmaker.”_

In past ages, Prime led the prayer, but no longer. Not since before Sentinel, had a Prime led recited the Annals.

_“Together with their infinite knowledge and wisdom they created the first Thirteen, lead by Prima, the Matrix bearer they  were assigned duties to the running of the planet they came to call Cybertron and learned to fulfill the roles they had been made for.”_

The prayers offered no solace, sparks had hardened towards their maker. Only a few listened, huddled in the shadow of Rura Penthe, most readied weapons, and gear.

_“Cybertron flourished, and all was well, yet Unicron became unsettled as time went on, the Cybertronians never aged, never took damage and never died as the Creations of the organic worlds did. The Cybertronians were cold, hollow completely opposite from the deep wisdom and compassion the Primes showed. As they grew, the first twins watched and an unease  built deep within Unicron’s spark. He Created strife and discord.”_

Ironhide knelt in prayer, before him, all of the Frontline Detachment knelt as well. The prayers were meant to ease the suffering in their sparks, to maintain their ethereal bond with Primus.

_“’Brother, why do you kill my creations? What turns your spark to such cruelty?’ Primus asked of his sibling.”_

_“And Unicron replied, ‘They exist without wonder or caring and as my affection for you keeps me strong so too should these new creations know of such caring and all should know the affection for their Creator.’ And Primus was pleased …”_

 “Why recount that myth ‘Hide? It’s been infected or altered, cause if ‘Primus was pleased,’ why in the Pits are we at war?” ThermalStriker demanded harshly, the Anti-Seeker Assault Commander glaring yellow optics at Hide balefully.

“Cause’ that ain’t the whole of it, you slagged bit-processored idjit.” Hide replied smoothly, “Truth is, one ‘o the Primes went rogue, turned on Primus. In the end, Primus and Unicron were on opposin’ sides of the argument on how power should be used. Unicron saw himself loosin’ the argument and the opposin’ Prime vanished. That’s how come we’ve got the Eclipsed Covenants. One says all sentient life is sacred, and should be free to survive unhindered, the other that all life is strife and shall only become sacred when we join as one within the Allspark.”

“Augh, Hide, that isn’t what I’m askin’ – All I’m saying is why do we listen to this viral load when Primus must have already forgotten about us!” ThermalStriker demanded wearily, he had long lost the ‘affection of Primus’ where there should have been the unflagging devotion to their god, there was only a painful, hollow pit. “If He is really out there, then why doesn’t He give us a Pit slagged sign?”

Alarms split the darkness. The frontline bolted to their positions, Ironhide took his. Once more he was shadowing a leader. Once more his survival came after his commander’s. He looked to Jazz, a nod confirmed his duty. Together they took to the field and braced for impact.

Seekers screamed overhead. Missiles slammed into the ground with plumes of green and violet staining the carnage. Ground troops unloaded heavy artillery and massive volleys of laser, plasma and thermal blasts arched overhead.

Shock troops met the Decepticons head on. Massive energy shields and plasma weapons holding back the line for snipers and munitions to lock on. Infantry, standing troops; calvary, alt-mode units with copilot and gunner; the platoons moved like strategy pieces under Prowl’s hand. Behind him, token tacticians rode along his computations, second guessing him. They slowed him down, but he had no choice. Prowl would do his duty, keep the mechs under his command alive and their territory out of Decepticon hands.

Silent communications filled the comm channels leaving the battlefield a clamor of explosions and screams. The Decepticons kept coming, wave after wave. They pounded on the Autobot line and took too many sparks with them. Jazz looked for an opening. He led his small unit to undermine the Decepticons, and each time they took out a couple field  commanders, more took their place.

Elita looked through a crack in the ground. The Decepticons were everywhere, but his would slow them down some. She smiled humorlessly and sped away with her femmes on her spoiler. Explosions rocked the underground tunnels. Herfemmes took a beating from the falling debris, but the strong stench of mech blood confirmed that the Decepticons took the hit worse than they did.

Elita signaled her unit and moved to another area of the battlefield. They were undermining the Decepticons, and building a moat at the same time. She had no delusions that they were doing more than annoy the Cons, they were too many.

ThermalStriker had his mechs on a low ridge near the prison. They were stretched too thin, even flanked by cavalry and backed by snipers. There were too many Cons, and not enough firepower. Steelcracker launched another barrage of anti-seeker missiles, taking out some of the winged menaces,but not enough.

Hide watched Jazz like a turbohawk, moved when the mech moved, watched his back when he turned. Jazz needed a faster guard, Hide knew it, but he was available and now he had to step up.

Cries rang out, Autobots littered the ground. They were surrounded, Jack’s entrance tunnel had collapsed the orn after he had returned from Rura Penthe, and all the commanders worried about the foreboding presence Jack reported heading their way.

*|*

Optimus stood behind the jagged ruins of a building, optics dark and worried. Before him stood Rura Penthe, besieged with Decepticons. Combiners, seekers … Optimus slit his optics. Rura Penthe was isolated, this was far outside of any Decepticon airspace. So, how did the Con’s find them? Fifteen orns, Optimus ground his denta. Fifteen orns ago he had been Orion Pax grieving for the loss of Sentinel.

“You said we could fight, can we go now?” Sunstreaker snarled from on top of the building.

Optimus looked at the battle before them once more. It was possible the Cons had just followed their trail from Sentinel’s last battle. Then, where was Megatron? He needed more intel, but there was nothing available. “Go, do not harm any Autobots, target only seekers and the combiners.”

“We don’t follow you.” Sunstreaker snarled.

“I am asking you to work with me. I will get you there, target the seekers and combiners. Get the attention on you. I need you to buy me some time.” Optimus looked at the mechs intently until Sideswipe shrugged.

“Sure, can you throw us?” Sideswipe asked.

“I have an idea.” Optimus folded down and raced to the next closest rise. A husk of an old star freighter lay strewn across the ground. Only its shape defined what it had been. Everything else had been stripped away.

With a lurch, Optimus separated from his trailer and allowed the battle platform to open. Within the rocket launcher shifted, its munitions removed by cable-arms and the turrent shifted until it looked like a massive tuning fork with a cable stretched between it.

“Get on, both of you.” Optimus hoped he was right about this. The pair stepped into the flat pouch in the center of the cable, knelt and hugged each other. Optimus wondered if they had tried this level of stupidity before and decided it was better not to know.

“Ready!” Sideswipe grinned. Immediately a hook rose from the battle platform’s floor, snagged the cable and drew it back until taut.

“Until all are one.” Optimus intoned and launched the slingshot. The pair seemed born to fly. They pushed off from the slingshot at its height, straightened and arced towards the battle. Now, Optimus had to flank the Decepticons on three sides, do damage, not kill any Autobots and not get caught. He really missed Prowl.

*|*

Silence never was their thing. Loud, brash, they relished the spotlight, but there were always exceptions. Flying in darkness, aiming towards a familiar blue seeker, they remained mute. _Bitstream!_ Sunstreaker still had a score to settle. Sideswipe spread his arms and tilted, altering his trajectory. Bitstream had a friend.

The jarring impact knocked Bitstream off course, straight into one of the combiners. The giant fell and Sunstreaker could only laugh. “Megatron can’t save you this time.”

“No!” Bitstream shrieked, immediately triggering his transformation sequence.

“Poor choice.” Sunstreaker bared his denta in victory, slamming his hand into an exposed patch of wiring. The next astro he leaped off Bitstream’s graying frame, hand still stained from spark fluid. _Whose next?_

Sideswipe howled as he rode the seeker in circles. The femme seeker was scared. He almost cooed at her, but she was too terrified to listen. Too bad, he could have had fun with her.

_::Just shove her into a combiner already!::_ Sunstreaker’s order broke his concentration. Sideswipe shrugged and goaded her into the direction of the nearest seeker’s spinal array. Neither Con would enjoy this experience. Sideswipe grinned, leaped from her frame and landed on the combiner.

_::Any ideas?::_ Sideswipe fired his stolen blasters into every exposed patch of wiring he could find.

_::His torso::_ Sideswipe leaped from the shoulder down to the torso of the giant, dodging its flailing arms and writhing tentacles that threatened to crush him. On the giant’s right side, there was a crack in the armor.

_::Too bad we don’t have bombs::_ A thrill of alarm made Sideswipe jump from the giant. Just as a fireball erupted from the combiner’s side.

“What the slag?” Sideswipe rolled to his peds and found his brother, dead seeker under his ped, with the rocket launcher on his shoulder.

“You asked.” Sunstreaker dropped the empty weapon and turned to the next combiner.

*|*

Steelhand braced himself, arm cannons firing at the nearest seekers. The vermin kept encroaching. A noise above him, he turned optics wide. Old stories spoke of Primus sending avenging wraiths into battlefields to defend His chosen side. Steelhand knew he was looking at one now. The spirit crouched, optics blazing doorwings spread wide, a black shadow against the dark sky.

From atop Rura Penthe, the spirit looked sinister. An explosion rocked their building, a geyser of light revealing the spirit to be Prowl, right where Steelhand had left him. In the sinister violet and green flames, Prowl’s shape seemed to dance and writhe, becoming a creature of Unicron’s making.

Steelhand shoved aside the old stories playing in his mind. And focused once more on the seekers. Shapes flew in, no lights, no badging. EM fields flaring battle lust and violence, the figures engaged seekers. As if their appearance had been the break Prowl needed suddenly the troops below began to move, they consolidated forces, pulled back and re-engaged on different fronts. They had a 360-degree front line. Steelhand just prayed Prowl would hold up.

 

Prowl never felt more terrified or alive. He took in battle data from his commanders, but no one knew who the strangers were. Prowl ignored them they were not engaging Autobots. Field data coalesced with his observations. Commands went out, death tolls came in.

Below Prowl, on the lower platform where Steelhand and his guard battalion protected Rura Penthe, more tacticians and strategists continued their mad scramble to keep up with Prowl’s processing capacity. They had linked together, shared processing capacities shared duties to process Prowl’s orders. It was a waste. Those mechs should have been with their commanders. Field level strategists to accompany their commanders and give suggestions in real time for their immediate vicinity. That was their duty. But, he and Jazz had been given no other option. The commanders threatened to revolt if they could not second guess their leaders. Prowl wished for a Prime and heard Jazz’s prayers as well. This was a losing fight. Even if the two unknowns proved to fight on their side, even if they won this battle. Without a Prime, the Autobots were on the brink of civil war.

Explosions rocked the outer perimeter of the Cons’ battle line. Flanked on both sides, the Con’s became distracted. Something outside their lines was attacking, something from beyond was trying to get in. Prowl needed data, but no one could go out that far. He needed more intel but everyone was engaged. He was fighting blind up here, and suddenly he felt very, very small.

*|*

Optimus searched for vital targets. There were too many Cons here. Something was up, and the Autobots needed an out fast. He kept a lock on his EM field, not letting his Prime coding activate just yet. The Cons could not realize who or what he was.

Optimus had split up his capabilities to cover three sides of the Decepticon ring. Roller hemmed in the epsilon sector, the third of the ring pointed in the direction of old Tarn. The battle platform covered the beta sector, which pointed towards the direction of the Vos wreckage. Optimus held the alpha sector, the side that led to Iacon. He could sense them gutter in the firefight, and ignored each light lost. Decepticons, Autobots, too many mechs were terminating. He fired on the convoy class-mech in his quadrant. An explosion rocked the landscape, the Decepticons went wild. Something had pushed them.  

Optimus couldn’t see the pair he had launched into the fray. Somehow he doubted they were terminated yet.  The battle tide shifted. The Decepticons moved their line inwards, forcing the Autobots back against the base of Rura Penthe. Optimus gasped, when had the Autobots been pushed so far back? The Autobots were trapped between Rura Penthe and the Cons. There was no cover, no high ground. The Autobots needed a miracle, or they would be wiped out. Optimus readied his prime coding and a wide vectored data packet. It was time the Decepticons learned who they were fighting.

 “Autobots, fall back!”

*|*

“Autobots, fall back!”

Prowl gasped. The order had come from a Prime! He took in the Prime’s data packet. He nearly keened, the Prime had battle statistics, external data on who was fighting on the outside. _There!_ The Prime had found some high ground, an old building left to rust. There wasn't much high ground, but a minibot contingent with enough firepower could change the balance.

_-:-Brawn! Get your division to these coordinates! -:-_

It was time to press their advantage while the Cons were distracted.

‘Prowler got news. The newbies took out Commander Bitstream. The Con leaders are quarreling for dominance. There’s not much left of Bitstream, his spark was ripped out and crushed. Whatever those two are, I hope they’re on our side.’

‘Me too, Jazz.’

The minibots signaled their readiness. Prowl gave the order to fire. The Prime had vanished from radar, but more explosions rocked the external portion of the Con’s troops, somewhere in the desert beyond their position, their Prime fought to reach them.

New data rushed in, Prowl blocked out everything, locked down his external systems. He reduced himself to data and programming. The pieces on the playing board moved at his direction. His opponent was hard to predict, erratic. No, not opponent, his _opponents_. Decepticon leadership had splintered. They were not fighting a united army, they were fighting separate divisions willing to terminate each other.

He split his forces, divide and conquer. Wedges drove into the Decepticon ranks, splitting united divisions, forcing quarreling troops together. If the Con’s could organize, they would win. Prowl cast for their Prime sent coordinates and attack vectors. Without a response, he could only continue processing his data.

*|*

The Decepticons fled. Ironhide didn’t know what spooked ‘em, whatever it was it had driven all the Cons out. Hide wanted to collapse. Jazz was wounded but walking. Most of their troops were terminated or injured. They had wanted to leave Rura Penthe before the battle, without Ratchet and more medics, they would offline before they got halfway across the desert.

_-:-You wanted a sign Striker, guess ya got one.-:-_ Hide sent over the direct line to the commander and both froze as a mech stepped through the smoke and flames of the battlefield. Before them stood a Prime flanked by the two unknown fighters, they looked like creatures from Unicron’s Pit.

_-:- Yes, it's a sign. Are we serving Primus or Unicron?-:-_ Thermalstriker sent back.

Nobody moved.


End file.
